#ignore how fucking ugly the tree looks

[beaniebabie-pie]

Happy Homewarming!

here’s Eddie and Frank hangin out!!!! this is actually a super old piece from December, I just colored it this morning as a warm-up. good thing Welcome Home just recently entered its Christmas era so im not awfully late with this🙏🙏

click 4 better quality!!

EDIT- EDDIES ARM IS TOTALLY UNCOLORED IM SO SORRY I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I COULD HAVE MISSED THAT

[aquaglow]

confidence guide for awkward girls 💫

LEARN TO SHUT UP. this is the first advice because it is probably the most important one, but the one that took me the longest to comprehend and master. girl, literally just shutting the fuck up does wonders. most of the times I was embarrassed out of my mind was coz I said something completely avoidable, only because I believed that being quiet was either rude or more awkward than whatever I rambled at that moment. bzzt, WRONG! being quiet means first of all being non-reactive, which gives you time to really reflect on what's being said and whether or not it even requires a response, and guess what; like 80% of the time, it does not. you are allowed to not respond, nod along, go "hmm" or "oh!" and leave it at that.

LEARN TO "FAKE" SMILE. this may seem controversial but it helps me so much. I've always been accused of looking mean, bitchy or just too serious, especially since I started to shut the fuck up (see previous item). and I am guilty as charged: I do have a RBF and when I am focused my eyebrow goes ò_o and I look judgemental and almost evil, and when I tried to balance it out by being funny or witty, it just came off even more awkward. the solution? I've started practicing a fake smile in front of the mirror when I was about 13 years old until I got the muscle memory of it so perfectly that now it's my response to nearly everything that I don't want/can't respond to. throwing an easy smile into a conversation will make you seem relaxed and in control even if you're bubbling anxious inside, and people will feel more at ease with you. also: learn to be generous with compliments, and try to make them your auto-response as well!

STOP COMPARING YOURSELF. comparison is the mark of insecurity and envy, and it's one of the ugliest and most useless habits you can have. yes, useless: what benefit do you get from comparing your face and body and circumstances to somebody else's? and please don't pretend you're getting "inspiration" from them. listen, you are your own lane. you are your entire universe. there is no other life to be lived, no other body to embody. this is it. these are the cards you were dealt with. the longer you try to peak into somebody else's cards, the longer you'll be ignoring yourself and neglecting your game. abandon ideas such as comparison, imitation or judgement towards others. confidence starts and ends with focusing on yourself.

LEARN TO CUT PEOPLE OFF. accumulating people in your life like they're pokémon is gonna be your downfall, because it's obvious not everyone can stay. imagine if a growing tree held onto all its leaves and branches, even the ones in obvious decay, how ugly and weak that tree would be, how much energy those dying parts would steal from the new ones in need of flourishing. it's the same with relationships. when someone disrespects you, hurts you, or simply doesn't align with you anymore, and you find excuses to keep this person around, what you're doing is betraying yourself, and how are you gonna have confidence in someone who betrays you? learn to cut people off or to simply let them go, and watch yourself become lighter and brighter.

QUIT BEING A BITCH. something people don't seem to understand is that the rude, conceited, mean girl persona is always revealed to be a small, petty and insecure rat on the inside. I've wasted years of potential connections trying to emulate the Blair Waldorf-y, Regina George-y vibes, trying to balance out my awkwardness with what I thought was their fierceness, because I was missing the whole point that their confident selves were lies. no girl or woman who is confident in herself spends any amount of time being a bitch, scheming to take people down, minding everyone else's business to make sure she stays on top. true confident people are kind even in the face of rudeness, they glow in shadows; their strength lies in tenderness. the sooner you give this mean girl show up, the better.

ABANDON YOUR NEED FOR APPROVAL AND COMPREHENSION FROM OTHERS. seeking approval is a very obvious trap but seeking comprehension is also dangerous, because the second people start doubting or questioning you – which is always going to happen when you decide to make a change of habits, traits, lifestyle etc – and you decide to explain yourself, you're accepting the premise that what you're doing is incomprehensible. if you're truly sure of yourself, there will be no need to assure others of yourself. if your peers or strangers don't understand it, so what? that's their enigma to sort out. respond to yourself and yourself only. if you understand and approve yourself, that's all you need, period. live for your damn self.

GOOD LUCK, LITTLE STARS 💫

[reignpage]

Frat Boy!Gojo

Estrella Damm: don't drink and run

Contents: general dumbassery, cursing, slight sexual language, violence, lots of cursing, wrote this high so idk if this even makes sense, I'll reread it and let you know whether its bs lol

It’s the same scene again. 

Three guys are circling you, laughing so irritatingly, and you’re just sitting there, doing your very best to shrug them off. The park is empty, it usually is at 3pm and especially these days with the nippy weather. Whenever Gojo strolls along the place to get to campus, he sees you resting on a bench, watching the tree branches sway above the pond. 

You’re hard to miss. 

A mass of black like an omen amongst the peace of nature, a blob of ink on a Monet, and he sees you everywhere. It’s funny, he thinks, how prior to the announcement of the engagement during the summer, he had never seen you on campus before. 

He can’t fathom how it was possible that he missed you. You stand out so badly, all eyes are on you everywhere you go. What with your lace frocks, thick platform boots, and terrifying piercings. 

You’re rolling your eyes at the lanky guy in front of you, thin lips curling over yellow teeth to snarl insipid insults that the other two chortle at. You just wanted a peaceful break in between your lectures, to take in the fresh autumn air, and watch people pass. But then again the universe has never really liked you. That became abundantly clear when your parents threw the news at you.

Was Nietzsche right?

So now you’re stuck watching disgusting idiots pick up a layer of your dress, mocking the fabric as if it’s something cheap. Little do they know.

“Where’s the funeral, hot stuff?”

You cringe. It’s the repulsive roll of his tongue, the way he flashes you a grin as if he’s such a catch and you should be happy he’s giving you any kind of attention. He probably thinks of himself as something akin to a wolf, wild and feral in the sexiest way, but from where you’re sitting, he more closely resembles a rabid hyena, slobbering all over itself. 

His breath surely smells like it too. 

Exasperated, you stand, snatching your dress from their grimy hands and sneer, “Don’t touch me, you ugly trolls.”

They don’t like that. 

Just as you’re stepping away, someone grabs your hair with a harsh pull and you gasp, tears brimming in your eyes from the burn on your scalp. Whoever has your hair drags you back to him, his face too close to yours, and you can see every pore, every hair, and you resist the urge to gag at the feeling of his breath skimming your skin. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are, you prissy little pri—“ 

Before he can finish his sentence, a hand is gripping his wrist, wrestling it back at an awkward angle, forcing his body to follow suit. He yelps and you stumble back on the bench, rubbing at your head. 

Your heartbeat is galloping like crazy, air robbed from your lungs and you’re rearing back to see a white-haired man looming over all of you with a menacing grin.

Gojo looks terrifying. 

A shiver claws up your spine, fear prickling your skin, and it feels as if the park had just become colder, dropping into the negatives. There’s something devoid of light in his eyes and it knocks you off balance. You’re dazed and his withering look full of disdain and contempt isn’t even targeted towards you.

"You guys again?"

The sheer revulsion, the abhorrence and loathing seeping through his words creates a flurry of shame through you all. You see it in the flush that reddens one’s guys face, and in the deep gulp the second one makes. It’s as if you’ve committed a fundamental wrong, like the whole affair was an abomination that he had happened to stumble upon.

He’s still twisting the guy’s arm back and ignoring the broken moans coming from him, choosing instead to direct his ice cold stare at the other two guys. They stand uneasily, glancing between each other as if deciding what to do. Seeing the resolve in the newcomer’s eyes, and the promise of pain, they grab at their friend and hastily walk away, not sparing a glance back. 

Not even at you, like you were never there to begin with. 

Huffing, you stand up, brushing imaginary dirt from the skirt of your dress and muttering a reluctant ‘thanks’ to Gojo. He’s studying you, sunglasses hanging low on his nose bridge so he can look at you over them. 

What kind of idiot wears sunglasses when there's no sun?

He doesn’t say a word and you begin to feel uncertain. 

The man before you is a mystery. You don’t know what he’s thinking. One minute he hates you and has declared you public enemy number one and the next he’s defending you from slimy perverts.

What is wrong with him?

Sure, you’re glad he didn’t just leave you to fend for yourself but you also wish he just left as soon as he came so you wouldn't have to deal with the awkward aftermath. Now, you’re left staring at him waiting for a stupid comment to come. 

But it doesn’t. 

“Got something to say?”

Your voice is snarky, but wavers just ever so slightly, the effects of the shock still coursing your veins. Gojo doesn’t flinch, he just shrugs and gives you one final look over, before he’s stalking off, long legs carrying him away like he was just strolling past to begin with. 

One step for him is like three for you. 

You begin walking too. And you scowl when he looks back at you over his shoulder, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets, swinging his crazy long legs like a giraffe.

Why does he walk like that?

“You following me?” 

His tone is so disgustingly arrogant you feel a sudden urge to whack him over the head with your boots. But you don’t. Because your boots are limited edition and much too pretty to scuff up with his ugly face.

Not to mention your parents would kill you, and so would his, probably. And maybe even the entire campus. 

Because according to the 'Bulletin' and this so called ‘List’ Gojo introduced you to, your fiancé is apparently the most beloved man in EdenU. Known for being friendly, approachable, charitable and charismatic, everyone either wants to be friends with Gojo, date Gojo or be Gojo. 

Having read every single piece written by some girl with poor tastes in men, clearly, you realise that there must be something wrong with the entire student population-- and even the staff, if the blushing some lecturers do when he passes is anything to go by. There are direct quotes from people detailing first-hand experiences with Gojo’s ‘kindness’, with how he took the time out of his day to give directions, helped an old lady cross the street, claps at the end of lectures as an expression of gratitude.

Classic bourgeoisie propaganda.

How could anyone consider him as a) a good guy, and b) a hot one?

That question has been bothering you for about a week now. And it continues to do so as he looks at you like you're bothering him.

You speed walk, pumping your legs as hard as you can so you can glide by him. Who’s following who now?

It’s petty, you know that. But for whatever reason, the guy just brings out that bitter child inside of you, the one that wants to be mean, to spit back as good as you get, and to put him in his place. 

Because clearly, the campus gossip has gotten to his head. 

You hear him scoff before he starts speed-walking beside you. It looks effortless on him. What a prick. 

His jacket brushes against you and you recoil, aghast that his bacteria touched you. With a new wave of determination, you begin jogging. It’s the most exercise you’ve gotten in years but it’s so worth it to see him jog as well. 

“Give it up, I’m way faster than you.”

Wordlessly, you jog a little faster every time he does.

“Surprised to see you sober enough to walk in a park,” you voiced with a taunting tone.

Gojo retorts, just as quick, “And I’m surprised you’re out in broad daylight.”

Dodging fallen branches and puddles, you leap and clutch your dress, lifting the thick skirt so your legs can push and push. There is no way you'll lose to the likes of him. You just need to reach the park edge, where grass meets concrete, and once you pass it, you'll claim victory.

Huffing, you barb, “I’m sure you like the weather just fine, right, Periwinkle?”

He snorts. “That must make you Vidia.”

“She’s hot so I’ll take that.”

Throwing you a side glance, he rolls his eyes and maintained, with a singsong voice, “Silvermist is hotter.”

Eventually, you’re both running through the park, overtaking each other in a give and take, and you grin every time you get the best of him by cutting corners. You know this park like the back of your hand. The cool wind doesn’t even register on your skin, adrenaline urging you forward, winding along the path and dodging bystanders who look on with half confusion and half amusement. 

This is probably the most excitement this park has seen in years.

Gojo doesn’t seem the least bit embarrassed. 

"Move, you're in my way, Eric Draven," he jab, not even slightly breath.

You sneer.

"No, you're in my way, Johnny Bravo."

You screech when a sudden force knocks you into a hedge. Sharp twigs poke at you, you struggle to gain footing against the mud, and you flail your arms. Your hair is caught, so is the lace of your dress, like a moth trapped in a spiderweb.

The motherfucker shoved you.

He actually shoved you.

Gojo's staring, with his mouth gaping, at his hand and then at you and then back to his hand, like he didn't mean to push you, like his body just moved on its own. And you see him take a step, hands stretching out to reach for you.

The fucking dick is so childish you don’t feel any guilt when you grab him by his jacket and yank. He falls with laugh like he had been anticipating your revenge, a light and airy sort of chortle, so childlike and youthful it almost makes you smile. Almost, because then you're both going quiet when he lands on top of you. 

That wasn't very well thought out.

You’re both angled slightly back on the thick hedge, so out of breath, the tiny branches prick at you both, leaves no doubt catching on your dress. Gojo’s holding his body weight, trying to find his footing on the wet grass but struggling to press his hands on anywhere concrete. Your legs are tangled, hips pinned to each other, and your hands are clinging to his jacket so you don’t fall deeper. 

“Woah,” he breathes out, panting slightly, “you want me this badly?”

Your frown deepens until you’re sure your lips will stay stuck in that position. He really just can’t help himself. It’s like it’s in his DNA to say something stupidly arrogant just to avoid the silence. With a grunt, you try to push him off you, feet kicking. The fucker is heavy. And he doesn’t even look like he’s trying. 

Gojo smells clean and you hate it. He smells like fresh laundry and sea salt and fluffy clouds. With every movement you make against each other, you become more aware of his broad shoulders and narrow hips. It’s like he’s got a sleeper build. His chest is firm beneath your palms and  your face is buried in his neck, feeling his Adam’s apple bob. 

“Move, fat ass,” you say through gritted teeth. 

He makes a sound of indignation, “Fat ass? Me? How dare you! I don't calorie count for nothing.”

Always fucking joking, the little shit.

You shove at his chest. “Move, Gojo, I swear to God.”

"Yeah, yeah. I'm trying," he huffs and puffs, clambering away, and then he adds, like he just cannot fucking help himself, "Siouxsie Sioux."

With awkward shuffles and uncomfortable twists and turns, you both manage to free yourselves. There’s a blush on both of your faces, yours is certainly from anger, raging at the sudden turn of events and the sheer humiliation at falling, and ashamed that you had stooped to his level and raced him, like a toddler. 

What the fuck is wrong with you?

You were raised better. For goodness sake, your mother would keel over and die if she saw you sprinting in a park, almost pushing an old lady out of the way just to beat your fiancé. God, you hate calling him that.

And you hate to admit even more that you might have actually enjoyed it.

Catharsis, that’s all it was.

Just a physical and mental need to let out the pressure building up from months of the most restrictive schedule, with the frequent dinners with stuffy guests, the constant handshaking and ass kissing, the indignity of it all.

Sometimes you wished you could be Murakami's Ice Man, maybe then you could rise above these petty emotions and let nothing bother you. But you aren’t free of your past. You’re defined by it.

Gojo isn’t meeting your eyes. He’s settled on adjusting his clothes and sunglasses, plucking leaves from his jacket, mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something. But you don’t let him. You dash past and ignore his existence, like you should have done from the beginning, and head to your lecture. 

Your hands are clenching and unclenching, neck creaking as you try to relieve the tension wound so tightly in your body you’re afraid you might combust. Everything about this is wrong. 

An engagement with Gojo is one thing, but to like the feel of his body on you, is a whole other thing. It’s stupid and it’s dangerous. Just like your mother said, emotions have no place in a marriage. You only need respect, and sometimes not even that. And as much as you hate her Machiavellian attitudes to life, you understand. You need a husband who'll mind his own business. Gojo is not that kind of man.

The guy refused to be friends, despite the many opportunities and chances you had granted him, so you won't do yourself the disservice of seeking a friendship.

You will not let the ‘hottest guy on campus’ sway you. His charming grins and arrogant comebacks will not warm your chest, and his muscular frame will definitely not haunt your dreams. There’s too much riding on this arrangement, on you. You cannot be distracted.

Man might be condemned to be free, but that doesn't apply to women. Not women like you, anyways. Thanks for nothing, Sartre.

Those are the thoughts you come away with from the encounter. 

Gojo, on the other hand, is still standing where you left him, hand rubbing his chest whilst lost in thought. His head is tilted, sunglasses hanging low on his nose bridge again as he watches your retreating figure. 

It’s kinda hard to see your features through the pile of black clothing and accessories, but having been close enough to rub noses, he realised, you’re pretty. The kind of pretty that would inspire art, not that he knows much about that.

He licks his lips and he swears he can taste the sweetness of your scent lingering, and when he looks down on his chest, he also swears he felt the unmistakable sensation of small metal balls scraping at him through his thin jacket. 

A Cheshire grin pulls at the corners of his mouth. He stuffs his hands in his pockets once more and carries on walking at a leisurely pace, a slight pep in his steps gained from a victory over a game he didn’t even realise he was playing. He strolls to class with just one thought filling his mind. 

My future wifey’s got nipple piercings.

[blastoqueen]

Sunrise.

Chapter 2

Rating: Teen and Up

Relationships: Noa x Mae (Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes)

Content warnings: None

Comments: English is not my first language. Sorry if something is wrong.

“What’s that thing on your feet?” Noa asked while he and the human girl walked to the lake the next morning.

“They are called shoes” said the Echo “They protect your feet while you walk”

“Why do you need… to protect them?”

“So they don’t get hurt”

Noa rolled his eyes, it was almost annoying how weak humans were. He had never seen an animal so fragile and needy, only babies were like that. Maybe Mae was a human baby, he hadn’t thought of that. Should he ask her?

Echoes were the most useless creatures he had ever seen, their skin was almost hairless and could easily tear, they could get burn from the sun, the sun! They were unable to climb most of the time and they stink. Why were humans like that? They looked like a bad joke.

Mae noticed the expression in the ape’s face but choose to ignore him. She thought about the evolution of humans and wondered if apes were to evolve. “They are evolving” a voice in her head reminded her “Second by second”. It was terrifying.

How could she explain to Noa that being so fragile was part of their evolution? That human's bodies adapted to being comfortable and their minds used everything around them to build tools. “Our strength is in our minds, not our bodies”.

When the arrived at the lake, the Echo observed the clear water, and she came closer. Noa sat a few meters away and started to eat a peach he brought in his little bag.

“Noa?”

“What?”

“I need privacy”

Noa looked at her, not knowing exactly what she meant.

“Privacy… for what?”

“I´m gonna get clean”

The ape stayed still for a second, but the insistent look in the girl told him he needed to leave. He sighed with annoyance and walked away. Echoes had weird ways of doing things, why would they need privacy to shower? Among apes, that “privacy” was non existing when they took showers, even though they didn’t shower often. They just went under water when they started to smell, and there was no problem if other apes joined.

“Dumb Echoes” Noa thought.

A few minutes later, Noa came back to the lake to take Mae to the village. When he got close, he saw the girl sitting on a rock, washing her naked feet. She was wet from head to toe and Noa noticed that she was not wearing any of her weird clothes.

“You done?” he asked.

Mae screamed and the ape turned his back, ready to fight the thread behind him. However, nothing was there, his look went back to the girl.

“Turn around!” the girl screamed again.

Noa obeyed but found nothing behind him.

“Nothing is there”

The Echoe submerged in the lake, only her head being completely visible from above the water.

“I swear Noa if you don’t turn around…” the furious tone in the human´s voice made the ape rapidly turn and keep his gaze on the trees.

“I don’t understand, Mae”

“I told you I needed privacy!” she was mad, really mad. Noa felt scared, he had never heard the woman scream like that. Was it really such a big deal?

“You took so long; I thought you were finish”

“It was only five minutes, Noa!” he heard Mae getting out of the lake and getting dressed again “When you see someone naked, you turn the fuck around!”.

“Naked?”

“No clothes, Noa!”

Oh, so it was about those stupid pieces of clothing she was wearing. Noa rolled his eyes. It was probably another human custom to be embarrassed of their body. “If I were that ugly, maybe I would cover too” he thought.

“It is normal for animals to not use clothes” the ape said, she could hear the annoyance in his voice.

“I´m not an animal” she said, furious “You are an animal, that’s why you think it´s normal”

Then, Noa got mad. He turned around abruptly and came closer to the already dress woman. When Mae notice this, she backed off, almost hitting the ground by tripping with a wet rock. The ape grabbed her arm before falling and spoke.

“I am ape” his voice became intimidating, the girl wished she had her gun “You are an animal. The only special thing about you… is that you speak. Nobody cares if you are ´naked´. Clothes only make you look like a ridiculous animal”.

Noa let go of the girl, noticing that his hand left a mark in her arm. Mae was speechless, her heart was beating way too fast and became sweaty again, for the first time she felt truly scared of Noa.

“If you want to go back to the village… you know the path”.

In only three second, he was gone.

------

When Mae came back to the village, she noticed a few curious looks from the apes and when she got close to the main tower steps, Anaya got in front of her.

“You can not go up” he said shyly, the ape couldn’t even look her in the eyes for more than one second.

Mae sighed “Why?”

“Noa is there. He asked nobody to… interrupt him"

“Could you tell him I need to speak to him?”

“No, no, no, nobody can go up"

“It´s urgent”

“Can´t”

Mae became desperate.

“You know what? Fine. When you see him, tell him I´m gone and that he doesn’t have to worry about me anymore. Thank you for the food”.

-------

“She is gone?!” Noa screamed.

“I wanted to tell you” Anaya explained. He looked nervous and guilty “You said nobody in the tower” he hated making mistakes, and by the look in the leaders’ face, he made a big one.

Noa got out of the tower and looked around for a horse, it was getting dark. When he grabbed a black horse, a female voice stopped him.

“Noa” it was Soona, she looked worried, anxious. Why was everyone so anxious? He felt like a terrible leader, watching his people became stressed. He was there to make everyone feel safe and happy, why was he failing?

“Let her go” she said.

The female came closer and put her hands on Noas shoulders.

“I can´t” the leader said “She is going to die”

“She can take care of herself”

“Soona…”

Noa was about to cry. He felt an enormous responsibility towards his clan, but at the same time he knew he couldn’t just let Mae run away again. He hated her so much, and at the same time he didn’t.

“Noa” the female whispered, she brought their foreheads together and closed her eyes “Stay with us. Stay with me”

Noa closed his eyes with so much regret, he held Soona’s head carefully.

“I can´t” he said, separating himself from the ape.

He got on the horse and left the village.

He was coming back, he just needed to find the human. Noa wipe away a tear, hearing the cries of his friend left behind.

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 8 part 2

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2][3][4][5][6])

agatha closes her eyes when rio confronts her, she's scared and overwhelmed like during their fight in episode one, when she couldn't quite hide her panic behind all the posturing. their moment of complicity is gone, and rio's anger is back in full force

they're both posturing tbh. they're playing the old "killing is so sexy of you" game, but it's not working, flirting and deflecting is no longer possible, there is too much pain and resentment involved. these bodies, alice and lilia, are heavy between them, they're an open wound and an accusation.

agatha follows the script, but with no theatrics, no fake drama. there are no masks she can hide behind anymore, especially not in front of rio. it's just her, naked, with the grief and pain in full view.

and look, the placement of that tree has to be deliberate, it wasn't there a moment ago. the tarots cannot lie. the real agatha, stripped down to her ugly soul, carries this unfathomable pain, these three swords piercing her heart.

and there it is again, the elephant in the room. rio can't and won't ignore it.

agatha still tries to deflect, to buy time. look at her, she knows it's useless. she's crying, and she's so full of spite. flight is not an option anymore. fight it is.

they have BEEN through this. rio is supposed to do her GODDAMN job

but it's so much more complicated than that now. agatha literally went and fucked up a perfectly good grim reaper, is what she did. once upon a time rio would have had no hesitation, no resentment. but now she knows that harming billy will ONCE AGAIN hurt agatha and make agatha hate her even more, and it's too much to handle. agatha has put her in an impossible situation. again.

and THIS BITCH still has the AUDACITY of denying it. she still tries to walk out of the conversation, and rio has to step in front of her and physically stop her

te veo. always, always, always. despite all this shit between them, rio cares about her SO MUCH, all she can think about is what agatha is doing, how agatha is feeling. trying and trying to fix the impossible.

agatha attempts a mocking smile, but she can't. she can't put up that barrier anymore. rio's words are making her extremely uncomfortable. she is the one who observes, who schemes, who studies others for her own advantage. I can't believe I keep bringing up agatha's nakedness in such a non-horny way, but this woman HATES being perceived, hates showing weakness and revealing her fragility. it's a trauma response dialed up to the max.

this walk with another woman's son on a road that doesn't ex-

oh, rio. oh, baby. you're jealous. another woman, another child. she has chosen them over you, and refuses to see how much it's hurting you. how much she is hurting you. you're so, so angry.

rio is almost at her limit, and look at her. she is still trying to break through agatha's thick stubborn skull. it's no use, no use.

agatha is cornered. she's shaking with fury. she cannot run, she can only scream and lash out.

and dear lord, rio is still being soft. she's holding her ground, she's speaking her mind, but despite all, she doesn't yell, she's being so gentle with agatha. she's still trying to make her see reason. look what I did for you, agatha. I bent the rules of the universe for you. how can you not see it?

did I already say how glad I am for kathryn hahn's golden globe nomination? it's so well deserved. look how different she is here from her usual agatha, so still, devoid of any silliness. just pain and white hot rage. you call WHAT YOU DID special treatment.

and aubrey too, honestly. her characters are always so over the top and weird, and she is being so understated here. she flinches at agatha's words like she can't quite believe them. they really never had this goddamn conversation, agatha really avoided it and ran away screaming for two centuries straight. all rio wanted was to explain herself and to be forgiven, even though she's not guilty of anything and she knows it. but agatha's pain goes beyond reason. no, worse than that, agatha's pain is her reason, her raison d'etre, agatha protects it and fuels it and rio cannot compete with it.

the way she's almost breathless. like the pain is so much it's physical, like it's punching her stomach and chocking her airwaves.

and rio snaps at that. rio has her walls too, and she's very good at keeping her personal feelings at bay. agatha is headbutting those walls like a mad bull, and she's almost through. you are the one who takes, agatha. everything is always about you, your needs, your anger, your pain. there is never room for anything or anyone else.

agatha tries to run again, rio puts her whole body in the way, again. remember their first interactions in the show, when agatha kept running and rio would just let her? that's all over now.

rio hesitates. she takes a beat, and tries to deescalate. i cannot believe she is STILL trying, still pushing her anger back and asking about agatha's feelings instead, acting like a therapist. she is once again acknowledging agatha's pain and trying to walk her through it. do you see how unbalanced this is? and from someone who's ostensibly all about balance.

why do you make people hate you? why can't you open up about all that happened to you? why don't you want their help? my help?

she doesn't say nicholas. she calls him nicky. it's the intimacy of a child and grief that they share, no matter how much agatha wants to make it only about herself.

agatha needs a moment to answer, she needs to collect all her strength first. but she finally says it, and it's another tiny, tiny step ahead. there's almost a question in her voice, like she's testing these words so obvious but so strange to her. she'd rather make people believe she's cruel and uncaring, that she hates everybody, she hates children! that she exchanged her own son for the darkhold.

the truth is that she had a son she loved so fiercely, he was six years old, and he died. the truth is, she couldn't save him. and that is just too awful for anyone to comprehend. and so she lashed out, she inflicted pain, she embraced her anger and protected it like a treasure. being angry was easier than being sad.

meanwhile billy is still grappling with what lilia did.

jen too is grappling with lilia's selflessness. lilia has set an example that has affected her deeply.

she explains to billy what Green Craft is and why it makes sense for Death to be a green witch, and she's not as calm as she's projecting, there are tears in her eyes and she's sniffling, her voice is hoarse from screaming.

yeah, kid. it's a lot.

jen is like, have you MET agatha?

next up: rio has somehow convinced agatha to sit and talk. will they finally work their shit out? (spoiler: no they won't.)

go to episode 8 part 3

[skiiyoomin]

Can I request Bakugou x reader where he has a long lasting unrequited love for her

ღBakugou with unrequited love

ʚCont: Bakugou x gn! reader, unrequited love, one sided love, swearing, a little angst

⤑Back to navigation

a/n how we feeling about this

Why? Why? Why? The one and only time Bakugou falls for someone, and he can´t even have them. Why? He hates it. Hates you. No, he could never hate you. And that´s what pisses him off most. No matter what, no matter how heartbroken you make him feel, he can never have it in himself to hate you. Why? Because he´s so utterly in love with you.

From the moment you first walked in, looking so fucking pretty with that radiant smile, he knew he was fucked. He avoided you at all costs, but the universe had other plans for him. It was when you were paired up for a project that he finally came to the conclusion that he couldn´t avoid you forever. Even if he wanted to.

You're an absolute sweetheart. To everyone including him, even if he acts like he hates you. You know he doesn't. Damn you, why can you read him so well? During the time you worked on the project, he came to respect your hardworking behavior, which softened his edges. Just a little bit, and only for you.

He respects you, he convinced himself. Nothing more, nothing less. But, if he just respects you, then why does he feel green with envy every time someone that wasn´t him made you laugh? Deep down he knew the answer. Of course he knew, there was no other explanation for it. Yet his pride was never gonna let him admit it, at least for now.

These feelings became harder to ignore the more you talked. The more he learned about you. The things you like, the things you dislike. Your favorite restaurant and your go to coffee order. He accepted that he had feelings for you when, after a fun little hang out, you hugged him good night. He was sure you could hear the pounding of his heart against his ribcage. If you did notice, you didn´t point it out, saving him the humiliation.

From that moment onwards, the already softened edges became a mere puddle, just for you. He´d save you a seat, order an extra coffee, help you with homework. Things he would never ever be caught doing for anyone else. At one point, he grew suspicious that maybe you had feelings too. He grew hopeful. And hope is a dangerous thing to feel. It grows like a seed, it´s roots emerging from the depth of his heart until it sprouts like a tree, growing and growing until it slipped out of control. Until it blinded his judgement and clouded his rational thoughts. And when that hope is crushed, it feels like a wildfire, burning up every last root until it reaches the heart and crushes it.

He hates it. Hates the hope that swarms his chest when you walk just a tad bit closer to him. When your hands brush, a small taste of what could be. He hates his imagination, for running wild in the moments he least wants it too. Hates the yearning in his soul to feel your body laying beside the empty space in his bed. Or the desire he feels to touch you, to taste your lips and trace every crevice of your body.

But he can´t. He never will. Not when someone else´s hands trace the curves of your body. Not when someone else´s lips get a taste of yours. He never believed in right person, wrong time. Now? He wasn´t so sure what to believe. He really really hopes, never a good thing, that his eyes are decieving him. That at last he has to wear his glasses. Who is he kidding? He could be blind and still know it´s you. He knows that´s you wrapping your arms around someone who´s not him. He knows it´s you kissing him back. His heart aches because when you pull away and smile like you had the world in your hands, it´s not him who´s making you smile.

All those times he hoped your small interactions meant something, meant nothing. At least to you. You´ll always just be friends. Nothing more, nothing less. Hope is such an ugly little thing that has tore his heart apart. And now reality has slapped him in the face. The universe his looking down on him, holding both middle fingers up because hope blinded him from the truth. Just friends, nothing more, nothing less. That´s all it has been. That´s all it´s ever going to be.

[the-kr8tor]

What's Your Favourite Scary Movie?

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 11.3k

Summary: A camping trip with your so-called friends takes a turn from harmless taunting to gore filled stabbing.

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), slasher AU, Horror elements, CW bullying, CW food mentions, TW death, TW blood and gore, CW violence. Set in the 80s, CW animal death, drug mention.

Navigation

Octobie 🎸

Music blares in your ears through your headphones as the car passes by numerous pine trees along the road. You flick your eyes over to the rearview mirror when you felt eyes on your face. Sure enough, Flash's smiling eyes stare at you through the mirror. And when you hear muffled giggling, you already know where the delighted laughter is coming from.

As you glance at the passenger seat, Miranda's amused grin greets you. Her blond hair bounces as she tries to play innocent. Even with your music murmuring their words, you know that they're talking about you. So you slyly press pause on your walkman, with their chortling they barely heard the click of the button.

“God, purple isn't doing her any favours. I can't believe we're sharing the same car as the freak.” Andy, a jock like Flash, sneers right behind you as he sits at the far end with the luggage because of his size. “That's the color right, babe?”

His girlfriend, Quinn snorts in her seat next to you. “She’s wearing navy blue, babe. And yes that sweater looks fucking ugly, it's so 1975. I think I saw my grandma wear that once.” She twists in her seat to face her boyfriend, elbow hitting your cheek, but you pretend that it didn't happen for your sanity. She doesn't even mention it. “Are you sure you didn't hit your head during the game?”

Andy puts his arms on your headrest, and again, you get hit by elbows. You're starting to hate your club advisor for putting you in the same car as the people who never even wanted to be part of the forestry club in the first place. They joined because your club was unfortunate enough to have less members and therefore was the target of the popular clique because they were ‘too busy’ to pick a required club lest they don't graduate at the end of the year. Oh how you wish you were in the same van as Thena even though she smells like swiss cheese. But alas, you drew the short end of the stick.

“Or maybe he fell on his head when he was a baby.” Emma says nonchalantly with a book in her hands. She's kind of alright to you, only because she doesn't speak or even look at you.

Miranda giggles in the passenger seat while her boyfriend Flash laughs with her.

“I'm color blind, bitch!” Andy yells, making you wince.

“Yeah, he's color blind!” His girlfriend Quinn agrees. You feel like your head is being split open by her shrill voice. You long for swift death in this car.

“That's your comeback, bruv?” Flash eggs Andy on, you worry that his attention isn't fully on the road.

“W-what? You got a better one, fucker?”

“W-w-what?!” Flash says mockingly. A round of laughter echoes around the small wagon, and you swear you heard Andy growl at the guy. You kind of feel bad for the big guy, if he wasn't such an asshole to you.

More than annoyed, you press play on your walkman as they continue to bicker. Punk music filters through your ears and for a moment you feel alright. But this time Miranda hears the click, your former childhood friend turns to look at you with a condescending smirk.

“Welcome back to the real word, Paste.”

You hate that nickname so much, you wanted to throw the walkman at her face. But you take the high ground and just ignore her like you always do. That damned nickname. She thinks she's so clever for thinking of it when you two were just nine when she caught you scooping out a dollop of paste for a birthday card you were making. She thought that you were about to eat it, hence the nickname, Paste. The birthday card was for her, too bad the trashcan ended up receiving it.

“I told you not to call me that—”

“Bitch, look out!” Andy's gruff voice is grating in your ears, his yell trumps out your music as Andy swerves the steering wheel.

“Shit!” Miranda clutches at her seat belt as you see a deer standing right in the middle of the road.

“Fuck!” Emma, holds on to the front seat just as the car goes sideways, tires skidding on the asphalt, blackened smoke coming out of the rubber.

“Mother fucker!” You brace yourself as the chorus of the music in your ears crescendos, and a tree trunk gets dangerously close to the front of the car. “No—!”

You fall into darkness.

—

You hear an animalistic groan the second you're conscious. Eyes fluttering open, you're met with Emma's flashlight flashing on your face.

“She's awake!” She yells as she roams her eyes over your form from outside the car.

“How long was I out?” You touch your throbbing forehead. It aches but thankfully you don't find blood.

“Just a few minutes, sleeping beauty.” This is the longest time she has had a conversation with you. Her blue hair glistens in the afternoon sun as she opens the door for you. “You hurt anywhere?”

You shake your head. “I'm good…I think.”

She sighs, “good, up and at ‘em.”

You take it one tiny step at a time, once your hiking boots hit the grass, you assess the damage of the car. The hood is busted from the tree curved around the metal. The engine is smoking and the lights are smashed to pieces. There's also a huge scratch on the side of it. Mrs. Williams is gonna kill the whole lot of you when she sees her car.

“Oi, Paste!” You roll your eyes at Flash's call.

“I told you not to call me that—!” The second you turn around and set your eyes on the barely alive deer in the middle of the road, you swallow thickly at the poor animal.

“Gnarly, right?” Flash grins, but when he glances at the deer his smile fades. “What are we going to do with it?”

“Should we bury it?” Quinn says whilst hidden behind her boyfriend.

“It’s still alive.” Your eyes never leave the gasping animal. Crossing the small distance, still wobbly in your feet, you tilt your head at its large wound. Even doctor Dolittle can't fix this.

“What do you suggest we do then, Paste?” Miranda side eyes you. “We can't call for help. There's no payphone in sight!” She stomps her foot like a child. “Gah! I should've joined the homemakers club instead of forestry!”

Emma nudges you, “I think I know what Y/N here is thinking.”

“You do?” You furrow your brows.

“You speak freak now, Emma?” Quinn sneers.

You ignore her. “We should end its misery.”

“Fuckin' hell, mate!” Flash gestures wildly at the deer. “It's still alive, maybe if we wait for Mrs. Williams and the others—”

“They might have already passed this place because you and princess here kept needing bathroom breaks.” You blurt out. Miranda and Flash scoff with a shake of their bottle blond heads.

“Woah!” Emma clasps your shoulder. And you flinch away from her touch.

“Paste here has some fire in her!” Quinn joins in, queasiness gone. Queasy Quinn, you should call her that.

With a clenched jaw, you bend down to retrieve your butterfly knife from your boot. Flipping it open, you roam your eyes at the bewildered group.

“Damn.” Andy whistles lowly. His girlfriend punches his bicep.

“Who's gonna do it?” You ask, the deer continues to wheeze out. Its blood now slowly inching its way over to your feet.

“Not me!” They simultaneously say with their index finger pointing at their noses.

You're camping with a bunch of children it seems. With a sigh, you kneel down next to the deer. Looking into its deep brown eyes, it's a sea that threatens to pull you under its sympathy. Your hand settles atop its blood coated fur, matted under your touch, warm and still oozing with fading life. It huffs at you, bleating like it's pleading to be spared, or be taken out of its misery. Whatever it was, you swiftly stab it in its carotid artery right on its neck, as if you've done it a million times before.

The group's disgusted yells and groans fade in your senses as its crimson flows from the wound down to your knife and hand. It's still warm, you feel like you're death itself. The poor deer stops twisting and kicking, finally falling limp in your hands.

Your blood rushes in your ears, pulse thumping like the beat of drums. Something inside you awakens from its dormant state you've forced it inside your ribcage. It flutters right out of its crystalline cocoon, beginning to fly out, trying to escape the confines of your serrated flesh. Breath running warm, you take out your knife from its body.

“Freak,” Miranda taunts under her breath, you can feel that a part of her is afraid. Does she not realize you're the one holding the bloodied knife?

“You looked like you enjoyed that one, Paste.” Her boyfriend agrees, you send them a tensed glare. They both look away from you. You can feel the fear behind their distant eyes.

“Your sweater is wasted.” Quinn raises a brow with an amused glint in her eyes. “Good, it was ugly anyway.”

You stare at your blood soaked sleeve. “I'll go get cleaned up.”

“You better, you smell like a dead rat.” Andy scoffs, arm slung over his girlfriend's shoulders.

“Go, we'll manage here.” Emma says without looking in your direction, eyes trained on the now dead deer, disgusted by its guts flowing out of its many wounds.

You walk back towards the car where your bag is. Once you reach it, you fall on your knees behind the car to avoid any more teasing from your so-called club mates. Weirdly enough, you don't feel shaken by it, nor disgusted like the rest of them. It's a weird feeling. You haven't felt this way in a long time. But this feeling, this enlightened feeling brings you a familiar comfort, bringing you back to your summer camp days.

After collecting your thoughts, you change into a turquoise windbreaker, blood all wiped clean by a wet handkerchief. Once you hide the knife back inside your boot, you return to the rest of the group with your backpack slung over your shoulder. The tin water bottle and skillet clangs against each other, signaling your return.

“Took you long enough,” Quinn says in her high pitched voice that is glass breakingly worthy. “We came up with a plan.” You didn't even know that they're all capable of thinking. “So we thought that we could wait here for the rest of the club to rescue us—”

“Bad idea.” You cut her off. Their eyes are all on you, and you almost shrunk down from their stares. “I–I think we should hike towards the campsite. We have a better chance of meeting up with them that way. We can't wait out here in the cold, especially since we don't know if they've already passed here.”

“Makes sense.” Emma agrees, still avoiding your eyes. Was that fear?

“But that's so far though!” Miranda kicks at a pebble like a petulant child.

You clench your jaw. “Then wait here, I'll hike up to the campsite.” Fixing your hold on your pack, you start walking away. “Don't blame me when you're all freezing to death.”

“Wait for me!” Emma calls after you, running towards the car to get her own pack.

“Not you too, Emma!”

“I'd rather stay with the survivalist than the cheerleaders!”

“Damnit,” Flash curses under his breath while the rest of them look at him, waiting for a plan. “I hate to say it, but she has a point. We have no idea how to even light a fire. But Paste here can.”

You walk quicker when you hear them following you. If you could sprint away, you would've. But alas, you need to conserve every bit of energy you have to trudge through the last miles towards the designated campsite.

Emma walks side by side with you, well, a few steps apart from you. She's silent for the most part except for her lingering gaze on the side of your face. The rest are already arguing behind you after five minutes of walking. Of course they're arguing about the single granola bar that Miranda packed for herself.

You deafen them out in your ears, wishing that the birds would sing louder in the trees to tamp out their voices. You'd put on your headphones but it broke in half during the crash. The air smells fresh in the forest, with the wind brushing along your cheeks like a gentle kiss. You smile gently at the peace, mind cleared of anything but the road in front of you.

Once the asphalt road transitions to a dirt road, it's now a real hike as your group sees the sign that reads, ‘jumping spider campgrounds.’

“Spider?” Quinn shrieks behind you and the peace is broken. “Please don't tell me this camp grounds is full of spiders!”

You realize that she's talking to you. “It's just the name.”

“You sure, Paste?” Flash questions you in a teasing tone. “They named it that for a reason.”

“Augh!” Quinn scampers behind her boyfriend.

You clench your hand on the strap of your backpack. “I've been here a few times and I've only seen two spiders.”

“Two is too much!” Quinn screams. At least no wild animal would come near the group with her voice ringing out through the entire forest. Unless there are wolves running about, then you'd hide behind Andy too. You're sure the wolves would like to eat him first.

With a headache blooming on the top of your head, you finally make it to the campsite after two and a half hours of walking. It's a small clearing in the middle of the woods with a few picnic tables set up and a dilapidated looking restroom sitting in the corner. Instead of Thena waving at you enthusiastically, there's no one in the campsite. A chill runs down your spine. You suppose it's the cold.

“Fuck.” You utter as you find out that the entire place sits empty without your other club mates and advisor.

Miranda and the rest push past you, shoving you to the side to look for a soul in the campsite.

“No! What the fuck!” Andy screams as he looks under a picnic table.

Emma stands in the middle of the clearing, hands gripping her blue hair. “Maybe they're running late?”

“Two hours late even though they were definitely right in front of us?” For once, Miranda says something right.

“Or maybe we're in the wrong campsite!” Quinn comes out of the bathroom with her hands shaking.

“Or they're out hiking already!” Flash crumples down to his feet, looking disheveled.

Then, all their eyes meet yours simultaneously. Their eyes shimmer under the sun, a slight blue hue falling on each of their faces.

You blink, lips slightly agape. “What?”

“What do you mean what?” Miranda walks over to you, pointing stiffly at your chest. “Where are they, hm?”

“How should I know? I was with you all the entire time. I can't communicate with them telepathically!” You immediately defend yourself.

“What the fuck should we do now?” Emma huffs, hands braced on the picnic table. Again, they all stare at you, as if you hold all the answers.

You don't know what to do either. “We should wait for them. They could just be running late. Or maybe they took a wrong turn—”

“God! I should've just joined table tennis!” Miranda exhales out, words carrying out into the woods.

“Listen.” You try to get their attention again. Which surprisingly enough, they give to you. “We should make camp and build a fire. The cold could kill us out here—”

“The cold?!” Miranda screams again, this time in your face. “You're worried about the bloody cold? We could get eaten by bears! Or fucking spiders!”

“If you could just listen for a second—!”

“I'm gonna look for a payphone.” Flash grabs Miranda, leading her further into the campsite.

“There are no payphones out here—!”

“I need to fucking piss.” Andy interrupt you.

“Don't fucking leave me out here!” His girlfriend follows closely behind.

You huff with a groan, frustrated at the situation. One moment they're listening to you, the next they're walking out into the woods.

“I'll set up the tents.” Emma says from the side. “I don't want to freeze to death.” She takes out her folded tent inside her pack. Clearing her throat, she looks at you. “Do you want me to set up yours?”

“Would you?” You ask with trepidation, what if she fills your tent with dirt and rocks?

“Yeah, sure. My dad used to take me out camping. I hated it but at least I learned some basic survival skills.”

“Like pitching up a tent?”

She chuckles nervously. “Exactly!” Coughing, she walks over to you to take your tent. “No tricks, I don't want you to freeze too.”

With slight apprehension, you give her your tent. Bag still slung over your shoulder, as much as you trust her right now, you don't trust her to give her your entire supply for surviving out here.

“I'll find some firewood and build a fire.” You say, rubbing your arms up and down for warmth.

“‘kay, watch out for jumping spiders. Or just regular spiders.” She jokes, managing to make you smile.

“I have bug spray with me, I'm sure I'll be fine.” Walking away, you head towards the left side of the forest where it's more familiar to you. Getting lost is the last thing you'll need here, especially when you're partnered up with people who wouldn't notice that you're gone.

Your feet aches and your neck throbs, despite it, you keep your head down to collect more firewood. You gather it in your arms, mindful that it doesn't poke a hole in your windbreaker.

You see a perfect branch near a pine tree, it's straight with a few bumps on the wood. It looks like something a kid would take to play as a knight. So of course you would take it.

Arm too full of branches, you bend at the waist to grab one from the forest floor. You don't anticipate all the firewood in your arms to spill over and fall on the mossy ground. It all tumbles down like a domino while you struggle to grab them even with your pack being so heavy on your back. And you're left with a single branch in your hand, sighing and silently cursing.

Left with no choice, you kneel down to collect it all again. You hear leaves crunch behind you, yet you continue to gather all the fallen firewood.

“Need help?” A voice suddenly follows the crunching sound. You don't yell or scream from the surprise appearance of the unknown voice.

You look over your shoulder, windbreaker making a swoosh sound as you move. Your eyes lock with his hazel eyes, he stands there, all six feet and five inches of him, (approximately in your mind) under the green canopy and greener moss underneath his steel toed boots, he looks right at home in the forest. But at the same time, he seems out of place with all his leather clad self, numerous patches stitched and buttons dotted along his jacket. His piercings shine as the light passes above, showing you his chiseled features. He looks like he crawled out of a catalogue, or from a punk album.

The sight of him makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, but you can't seem to find it in yourself to walk away or look away from him. It's like you're staring at a shark's fin moving underneath the waves, parting the waters in a glorious display of a deadly dance. You know what's underneath, and you know what it entails if you stayed, but you still stand there, gazing upon his mysterious eyes that hold you in place.

He gives you a familiar feeling akin to a cold breeze brushing along your flushed skin, or perhaps a gentle wave pooling around your ankles at the beach. There's warmth and familiar coldness in his eyes, one that you're sure you've seen in yourself.

“H–hi?” You ask, smile a bit wobbly from how awestruck you are. Something passes by his eyes, something akin to fascination.

“Hello,” the stranger grins, eyes crinkling at the corners, hands still tucked inside his pockets. “Are you lost? D’you need help?”

“Not really.” You chuckle nervously. He walks towards you, footsteps barely making any sound. “Are you camping here alone? Have you seen anyone else here?”

He shakes his head, crouching down to pick up all the fallen branches. “Yes, and no one, just you, love.”

You hold a single branch to your chest, “oh, you don't need to help me.”

“I want to, I can't just stand there and let you pick all these up.” He chuckles deeply, you now notice his dimples whenever he smiles. “You ‘ere with your mates? I heard you lot from where I was.”

“Kind of.” You softly smile, finding his own contagious. Something about him makes you feel at ease, more like yourself. “Do you know a payphone nearby? We need it desperately.”

He hands you the branches in your arms, calloused palms brushing along your own. “I think there's one a few miles west ‘ere.”

Your face brightens, and his gaze softens. “That's great, can you take me there? I need to call our advisor. I'm…worried about them, and Flash the moron totaled the car.”

The handsome stranger stands up, and he lends you a helping hand which you take almost immediately. His hand feels cold yet inviting. “So you're with your classmates then? How many are you stuck ‘ere?”

“Yep— kind of, they're my club mates. There's six of us including me.”

He inhales, the corner of his lip curls into a smile. “Alright, I'll help you.”

You sigh in relief. “I'm Y/N by the way.”

He tests your name sweetly on his tongue. Reaching for your hand, he shakes it gently even with you carrying the firewood. You almost fumbled with it when you grasped his hand. “Hobie. Call me Hobie, love.”

“It's nice to meet you, Hobie.” You haven't smiled this much during the whole trip.

“C’mon, I'll show you where the phone is.”

You nod enthusiastically despite the goosebumps running up your arms. “Okay.”

Hobie smiles, a smile akin to a lion's grin. “I'll take those off you, then.” He takes your armful of branches on his own, all the while having his eyes on you. “I can't live with myself if I let you carry this all alone.”

“Oh,” you suddenly feel warm, a good kind of warm. “Can I at least take half of it?”

He chuckles while fixing his hold on the wood. “You can take one.” At first you thought he was joking, but with his raised brow and curl of his lips, you thought otherwise.

You fight a grin. “Just one?” With a nod from your acquaintance, you take a single branch from the pile in his arms. “You sure you can carry it all?”

In a display of strength, he flips the branches over to one arm, carrying it all with no problem. “See? You already took a load off of it.” You tamp down a giggle. He starts to walk away from you, when he notices that you're not following him, he looks over his shoulder casually. “You comin'?”

Looking behind you, your second thoughts about leaving them behind are squashed down by their ugly words uttered to you through the years. “Sorry, I'm coming.” You catch up with him, side by side, you follow him with a small smile.

Leaves crunch under your boots whilst you fling the branch in your hand bashfully, letting the wood brush over the tall grass. The silence permeates through the hike with him carrying the load, and guiding you while you just walk close by him. You've never been the one to be guided, it's always you who has to guide the others, keep a watchful eye so they don't get poison ivy, and you, who has to lug around the supplies. All the while you listen to them expressing their ungratefulness. You stare at his profile, smile tugging at your lips immediately when he gazes back at you wordlessly. It's nice to be taken care of once in a while.

For the first time in a long time, you start a conversation. A friendly one that you know won't end in you getting called a nasty word.

“So why camp alone?” You tentatively start, nails picking at the branch in your hand. “This part of the forest isn't exactly beginner friendly.”

“Who says ‘m a beginner?” He nudges you gently, making you look up from your feet. “My mates and I used to come ‘ere and just stay for an entire week forgettin’ our lives until we got the scent of city smoke out of our noses.” Chuckling, Hobie looks at you through glimmering eyes. “Now it's jus’ me and my motorbike.”

“What happened to them— i–if you're comfortable telling me.”

“A freak accident. There was a forest fire, I barely made it out. But they didn't.” He sighs, you open your mouth for an apology but he beats you to it. “It was a long time ago, no need to say your condolences.”

“Still, I'm sorry. It must've been hard.” You reach out to him, but you decide not to last minute lest you make your new friend uncomfortable.

Hobie leans against your palm before you fully move away, his smile gets brighter when you decide to cup his elbow gently. “Thank you, love. I come ‘ere to look at the shitty condo they built atop it and imagine that it's burnin.’ Ain't that fucked up of me, hm?”

You chuckle, already regretting the sound right after. “I— no, that's actually…uh.”

“Funny?” He completes your sentence while chortling at your flustered self.

You blink, fully laughing with him. “I was gonna say that but I didn't want to offend you!”

“Consider me not offended, love. You've got a sense of humour amidst the fucked up shit in the world, I fancy that in a bird.” The heat on your cheek is impossible to ignore, you have a feeling he knows about it too. “The funny thing is that it's not even done yet, it just stands there on their graves like some fucked up grave stone.” He sniffs, thumb rubbing along the corner of his eye. “My turn to ask a question, what kind of club are you and your mates are in?”

“Forestry. And they're not exactly my mates.” You spat out the last word with malice. You both pass by a towering pine tree and a start to a dirt trail.

“Alright— hold on…” he pauses mid step, with a careful hand atop your shoulder, he reaches for your cheek, “you have red on you, can I?”

You don't usually let anyone touch you, especially someone who's practically a stranger. But the familiar feeling grows with every moment you're with him. As if you've known him for a long time, a long lost childhood friend that you've finally found amidst the throng of worthless faces. So you let him with a nod, let him wipe away the deer's dried up blood caking your cheek. The pad of his thumb is calloused and rough, yet his touch is as gentle as a raindrop falling on your skin. You welcome the feeling wholeheartedly.

“There, all clean.” He doesn't ask why you have blood on you, “it was hidin’ your pretty face.”

“It was just a drop, and I highly doubt that.” You say bashfully.

“That you're pretty or that it hides your face?” His hand rests upon your shoulder, thumb ghosting above your heated cheek. “You’re stunnin’, I wasn't going to let that small thing mark you.”

Your heart lurches in your chest. There it is again, the familiar yet cold feeling washing over you. It's a beautiful contradiction. You're not perturbed by it in the slightest. “Thank you.” you could only manage to say those two words.

Hobie leans away, hand pulling reluctantly away from you. From the way his tender gaze falls on you, you think he feels it too. It's not love, not yet anyway. It's attraction. The kind that's magnetic, the kind that you know he'll fit right in with your missing pieces, the kind that he'd let himself fall into place right next to the spaces that he can and will gladly fill out. His soul glows behind his calm demeanor, as if the two last endangered beings have finally met their match. Feathers plucked from the same bird.

But it's an unspeakable match, one that could end in teeth marks left upon each other’s skin, leaving darkened blood boiling to the surface, caking each other’s maw with his and your own blood. So you two let it simmer, let it boil until one of you cracks under the pressure like trapped frogs in a boiling pot. So for now, you act as if you don't feel it in case you're wrong. Something you wouldn't want to be wrong with.

You bite the inside of your cheek while you continue to follow him. Each of your footsteps match the beating of your heart, and you swear that he can feel it too.

Walking out of the thicket and into a clearing, you two have made it out to a smaller campsite where a single eerie lamp post and payphone stands in the middle. Its paint is chipping from the elements, only leaving a few scraps of red and stickers vandalizing the payphone. There's a steep ledge behind the payphone, showing the top of the green canopies below, and the fading light from the sunset above.

“I'll wait for you ‘ere.” He says next to you, already walking towards a black and red motorbike parked at the edge of the clearing.

“This yours?” You ask with a smile, eyes roaming all over its shiny metal.

He pats the seat before leaning on it. “My treasure, I call her ‘Ripley’”

“From the Alien movie?” You walk closer to him, payphone forgotten.

“You know it?”

“Do I know it?” You say with a laugh, “‘Mother! I've turned the cooling unit back on. Mother!’” You copy the same tone from the movie.

“‘The ship will automatically destruct in T minus five minutes.’” Hobie replies in a mechanical robotic tone.

“‘You... Bitch!’” You and Hobie quote simultaneously, earning a hearty laugh from the both of you.

You've found yourself holding onto his arm, smiling and giggling with him. “Y’know, they've got a screening of it down at the local drive-in.” You tentatively say, eyes turned down at the pile of branches in his arms.

Hobie puffs out his chest, chin turned upwards with a smirk. “You askin' me out, lovie?”

You exhale, moving away with disappointment and a wobbly frown. “N–no, sorry, I didn't know what I was thinking.” Before you could fully walk away, he grabs your sleeve, tugging you gently back to him.

“C’mon now, love, don't walk away now.” He encourages you with a lopsided grin, eyes smiling genuinely as he gazes at you softly. “Ask me properly.” He bracelets his hand around your wrist, holding onto you gently while he runs his thumb over your quickening pulse.

“I—” you swallow thickly, and he ducks down to look into your shy eyes. With his sweet smile, you gather your courage. “Do you want to go watch Alien with me at the drive-in?” You inhale, his grin gets bigger with every word you utter. “We can have p–popcorn, or if you don't like popcorn, we can have chips and—and then maybe soda but if you don't like soda we can—”

He pulls you in, trapped right in the middle of his legs, not closing in around you, making you more comfortable in his tentative embrace. “I like popcorn. And I'll take you on a motorcycle ride right after, like how they do in the movies.”

Your skin is aflame. “Okay,” you nod enthusiastically, “a ride right after— I mean!” You fluster, “a bike ride— with me and and you— of course with me and you, it's stupid if—” you ramble on, tripping over your own words. He waits patiently without teasing you. Instead, he smiles, and nods along. “I— yeah, that sounds good.”

He tilts his head, hand brushing a fallen leaf off your shoulder. “Yeah? It's a date then.”

You sigh longingly. You still can't wrap your mind around at how you manage to pull it off. “Okay, I'll—” you reach inside your jacket, pulling out a small notepad and pen, moving quickly to scribble your name and number, afraid that he'll change his mind. “Here's my number.” You rip the page and then hand it to him.

He shrugs, smirking at you. “My hands are kind of full, love.” Technically it is, but he literally just brushed a leaf off of you a moment ago. “Put it in my front pocket for me?” Looking down at his jacket pocket, he smiles sheepishly.

“You and I both know that you can handle it on your own.” You tamp down a giggle, teeth biting down at your lip while you watch him make a face. “Fine, I'll only do it because you're being cute.” Gently, you place it inside his jacket pocket. Your fingers brush something metallic and sharp, but you ignore it. “There.”

“Finally flirtin’ back, huh?”

“Shut up and hand me a quarter, Hobie.” His guffaw echoes around the clearing as he reaches at his jean pocket to rustle for some spare change. “Sorry, too much?” You wince, thinking that it might've turned him off.

He shakes his head with amusement. “You're cheeky once you've gotten comfortable.” He hands you the coin.

“Well, people usually don't stay too long to find out.”

“Their loss, my win.”

You smile, palms clammy and legs turning into mush from his flirting. Staring at the coin in your hand, you find it having two heads on each side. “I don't think the payphone will take this.” It reminds you of the same lucky coin that your club advisor always carries around.

“Right, sorry, that's my lucky coin.” He grabs it back nonchalantly, then he rummages through his pocket for another one. Checking it once, he gives the quarter to you. “Use it wisely.”

“A lot of people seem to have their own lucky coin.” You twirl the regular quarter in between your fingers.

“You don't have one?” He creases his brows, you shake your head in reply. “‘ere you go then.” Taking the coin from his pocket again, he puts it in the middle of your palm. “For luck.”

“I can't take this, it's yours.” You try to give it back but he pushes your hand away.

“Nah, you can borrow it. Bring it back to me on our date, yeah?”

You chuckle softly, eyes gazing into his own, finding your bashful reflection in his hazel eyes. “Okay.” With a shy nod, you turn towards the payphone to dial your school's number.

—

Hobie waits for you in the sideline while he basks in the sunlight. His eyes are closed while his head is turned up into the heavens, arms cradling the sticks, letting the rays bathe him through the dappled shadows of the canopy above. He looks like an oil painting.

He cracks one eye opening, sensing your presence. “What’d they say?” Straightening up, he tilts his head.

“Uh…” You've forgotten what the school administrator told you for a second. “T–they said that the rest of the club had already called ahead to tell them that they've arrived at the last pit stop. But we were just there and when I asked the cashier at the gas station, she said that she didn't see a van stop by.” You rub at your tired eyes. “I don't know where they are.”

Hobie leaves the side of his bike to cross the small distance towards you. His eyes are full of concern, lips turned into a frown. “‘m sure they're fine, love.” He juggles the wood in one arm to grasp at your tensed hand, giving you enough space to turn away but you don't.

“I’m not worried about them, Hobie. I know they're okay. But…” you squeeze his hand, “I don't want to be left alone with those fuckers.”

He scrunches his nose. “What fuckers?”

“I— forget it, I'll just tough it out until the others get here.”

“Nah, I'll keep you company.” He pulls you gently by your hand, “c’mon, I'll beat ‘em off with a stick if I have to. I have a lot of ‘em.” He shakes the bundle of wood in his arms.

You chuckle, “you don't even know what they've done.”

“I know enough from how you talk ‘bout ‘em.” He shrugs, warm fingers squeezing you back. “They sound like a piece of work.”

“You have no idea.” With a reluctant step, you move towards the trail once again. Hand in hand with Hobie, the two of you head to the campsite where surely they've forgotten about you and your firewood. Or with your luck, the spiders got to them.

“What did they do to you?” He cuts the silence in half. “Do they hurt you?” His tone softens with a tinge of fury within it.

“Not usually.” You reply back, eyes turned away from him. He encourages you with a gentle tug, lips softly smiling at you. Inhaling, you let it all out with hope that it doesn't turn him off with your woes. “The guys just tease me about… everything else. But the girls— they once locked me in the janitor's closet for an entire day. The janitor found me hours after classes ended.” You can hear his sharp inhale next to you. “One time they…uh— threw glue and flour at me during picture day. I had to go home after that and I didn't get my picture taken for the yearbook. It's just blank, fitting, right?”

Hobie shakes his head, eyes swirling with something you can't describe. “No, it's not. They're wankers.”

“I— yeah, they are.” You feel a weight lifted off your shoulders. No one has listened to you like that in years. Before it was Miranda, before she decided that you're not worth being friends with. “I know what you're thinking, I should fight back. I tried, it only made everything worse. They only do it because they think I don't belong in their fancy school. That I'm only there because of my merit, not because of my parents' money or lack of it.” Looking up at Hobie, you see him staring back with a clenched jaw. “I'm sorry, that was….pathetic.” You grip the branch tighter until you can feel the splinters digging into your palm. “We don't get to choose the room we're stuck in. But we can choose the people we let in. Graduation's coming, and I get to kick them out soon.” You smile at him and he smiles back with soft empathetic eyes.

“Maybe sooner than you'd think. And It isn't pathetic, they're the pathetic ones.” You both reach the place where you met him as you question inside your mind what he meant by his first sentence. He stops walking, hand carefully pulling you to a stop. “I have a confession to make. ‘m not ‘ere to grieve.”

You furrow your brows, stopping mid step. “What?”

“I know them, the rich fuckers that torments you.”

“So you know me too?” You let go of his hand, heart cracking.

“No, not you, just ‘em.” He glances behind you where you can hear Quinn's laughter. “Just— I'll tell you after, yeah? For now, I want to tell you that everythin' I told you was real. I do want that date, love. I only ever want to see you.”

“For real?” You reach for him, palm placed on his chest. Hobie drops the sticks unceremoniously, the sound of wood clattering down on the soil.

He then holds your hand in place, fingers curling around it. “Real. I need you to know me fully. Let me in the room y'know.” With a sigh of relief, you lean closer as he mirrors your movements, lips pursing, breath fanning over your lips.

“Paste!” Miranda suddenly yells from behind you. Whirling around, your smile falters. “Shit, there you are! Who the fuck are you talking to, you freak?”

“I—” you turn back around to face Hobie but he's nowhere to be found. Your breath gets stuck in your throat. “He was right there.”

She clicks her tongue at you, “stop tripping and get back to camp! The sun's setting.”

She doesn't help you with the firewood as she leaves you alone in the middle of the forest. You look around in hopes of finding Hobie, but you don't see nor hear him anywhere. Sighing, hope dashed, and chest aching with longing, you walk slowly back to camp.

—

After three hours of setting up camp with barely any help from the others, the tents are fully pitched behind you, and you finally get to sit down and rest near the campfire you built with the same wood that Hobie was carrying. For someone whom you just met, he seems to occupy your mind ever since he left. He told you he'd stay for you, but why would he leave the moment Miranda appeared?

The fire engulfs your frozen heart, you watch as the embers crackle, eyes unblinking at the bonfire. Your hands cradle a can of peaches, you haven't taken a bite of it ever since you opened it, your mind keeps wandering back to Hobie, wondering if he was even real.

“Oi, paste!” Andy calls for you, when you don't acknowledge him, he throws a tin can at you that lands right on your thigh. “Jesus, she's out of it.”

“Did you find some mushrooms out there, pasty?” Quinn's mocking tone makes you glance at them without moving your head. You can see her flinch slightly from your glare.

“Man, if you actually did find some mushrooms, can I have a bite?” Emma asks, back leaning on a log while she nurses a flask of vodka. You can smell it from where you're sitting.

“I didn't find any.” You mutter, eyes flickering down at the fire, vision swirling at the dancing flames.

“Too bad, remember when we found some last time?” Flash chuckles, arm snaked over Miranda's shoulders, who stare at him dumbstruck.

“What the fuck, Flash?!” She slaps his bicep in a resounding smack. “I told you that we can't talk about it!”

“Relax, M, it's been two whole years! Besides, our parents made sure that it stays buried. Literally.” That piqued your interest. Subtly, you listen in. Flash guffaws, fist bumping Andy on his way to snatch the flask away from Emma. He takes a generous sip while Andy cheers him on. “Fuck, that's good.”

“Those mushrooms fucked us up real fucking bad, Flash. It wasn't some bad trip.” Miranda chastises, she turns towards Emma and the others, sneering at each of them. “Did you all not remember what happened?”

“Of course we do, Miranda.” Quinn scoffs, flinging Andy's arm away from her middle. “I can still hear the screams!”

You blink, being practically invisible has its perks. Your hands grip the can, ears straining to hear more of the hushed conversation.

“Screams?” Andy shakes his big head, “try the smell, their burning skins were stuck in my nose for weeks.”

Miranda rubs her face, “you lot have no ounce of empathy do you?”

“Please,” Emma adds, glaring at each of them before stopping by Miranda. “You were the one who insisted we stayed at the campsite instead of our usual place. Now there's a patch of burnt forest where your father's— mind you, my father's, Quinn's mother, Andy's parents and Flash's grandfather, contributed to hide the crime where the condo now stands.”

Your eyes widens, hand slithering its way inside your pocket only to find the two headed coin. So it's real, Hobie is real. So it wasn't a freak accident, and this is what He meant by knowing them.

They killed his friends.

Miranda seethes in place, hands clenched into fists. “I'm not the one who decided to light up in the middle of summer where the dry leaves were! And now we're stuck here, forced to take forestry because a judge said so!”

“Oh fuck you, Miranda.” Quinn stands up, stomping her bedazzled boot on the ground. “If it weren't for my mum then we'd all be in fucking jail! Getting stuck with the freak was the lesser demon!”

“It's ‘lesser evil,’ actually.” You finally add, eyes glancing at each of their angry faces. “And man, how many people did you all kill, hm?”

“It was an accident.” Emma blinks at you, “fuck, great, she knows.”

Andy huffs like a mad bull seeing red flapping in front of him. “You gonna keep quiet about it, paste, or do I have to make you?”

Their stares bore into you, you now realize the amount of danger that you're in. Individually, you can take one down, but with them all after you, you won't survive the morning.

So you dig deep, you free the moth from the pits of your soul, letting it loose. “Oh, I'm going to keep quiet about it. Who would believe me anyway?” You scoop out a peach from the untouched can, bringing it to your mouth, you let the fruit slide down your throat. “Besides, I know something you don't. Something important that could lead to dangerous consequences if you didn't know.”

“What is it?” Emma looks you up and down, brows knitted together in uneasiness.

You tilt your head, grinning but your eyes don't convey the same expression. “Only if you promise not to hurt me.”

They all look at eachother, silently agreeing. “Fine,” Flash starts, “what is it?”

You lean back on the tree trunk, “you forgot to say please.”

They scoff, “please.” Emma says it first, then one by one, they say it with reluctance.

Miranda is the only one who hasn't said a word, but with a steely gaze from her boyfriend, she relents. “Please.” She says through gritted teeth.

You smile. “Mrs. Williams and the others aren't coming.”

“What?!” They shout.

“Yeah, I called the school but turns out they don't know where they are either. They're technically missing.” You pause, watching their expression sour further. “I told them where we are but since we're fairly alright they're focusing on trying to find them instead. So we're stuck here— wait, no, I'm stuck here with a bunch of murderers.” That seems to break the camel's back.

“You fucking freak!” Miranda jumps over the bonfire, lunging towards you with her fist connecting with your cheek. “Say that again!”

You laugh, spitting out blood as she wraps her hands around your throat. The others watch while Emma is the only one that's trying to stop her from choking you out with her hands, desperately failing to wrench her away from you.

“A–all this time,” you wheeze out, “you keep calling me the freakazoid, the fucking weirdo when you and your fucked up little friends are the ones who have actually kill—!” With a yell, she closes her fists around your throat, cutting off your air while you claw at her hands. “Fucking b–bitch!” You manage to let out.

“Miranda, no!” Emma tries to yank her away from you.

“That's enough!” Flash finally tries to do something but Miranda elbows his nose, blood quickly pouring out a second later. “Shit!”

Quinn and Andy slowly back away until they're well into the forest, nowhere to be seen.

“Fucking die!” Miranda squeezes harder as black spots filter your vision, she bangs your head harshly against the log behind you, warm crimson trickling out immediately after impact. “You've always been a thorn on my side! Always so fucking perfect, always the better one!”

You grin despite the blood coating your mouth. “I–I won't be surprised if it w–wasn't an accident. I get it, your mom and dad never loved you enough. Is that it, Miranda?” You choke, using your remaining energy to get the last word out, nails digging into her wrists.

Suddenly, piercing screams echo above your gasps. Flash manages to yank Miranda's grasp around your throat, leaving you breathless and gasping on the cold soil. The three of them look where the sound came from with trepidation rising in their veins.

Holding onto your neck, the skin tender and raw, head swirling, you watch on with wide eyes as Quinn comes out of the thicket covered in blood. Her former pristine white coat is drenched, face splashed with the same ruby hue, trainers leaving a trail of thickened crimson. She holds onto her bleeding arm, lips wobbling as tears leave a streak of clean skin amidst the spray of blood. Her head is oozing more of the ichor as she staggers her way out of the dark.

“H–help.”

“Fucking hell.” Emma holds out her arms for her, face contorted into deep fear. “W–what happened? Where's Andy?”

“He's dead!” Quinn cries, feet shuffling slowly towards Emma. Meanwhile, Flash and Miranda watch on with horror, clutching onto one another. “He doesn't have a head anymore. How will he play rugby now?” Just as when Quinn lets out the last word, the arm she has been holding up falls on the ground, making a squelching sound as it meets the grass below. Emma backs away, hands upon her mouth, shocked and terrified. “Oh, my arm fell.” Quinn chuckles through tears only to then tumble down on the gore filled soil right next to her arm.

“What the fuck?!” Emma shrieks.

“No!” Miranda hides behind Flash, who is also trying to hide behind his girlfriend, they struggle to hide behind one another.

You stare at the tainted dirt where Quinn lays face first. She still gurgles in place, body twitching all the while her arm sits a few ways from her. Your blood rushes in your ears, mouth turning dry, chest heaving to let air in. You have no idea what's happening, but there's one thing on your mind.

Run.

With leaves crunching underfoot, out comes a tall figure dressed in black mechanic overalls. His face is obscured by a macabre theater mask that depicts sadness. In his hand is a bloodied machete, and in the other is Andy's head swinging as he moves. He flicks the weapon free of blood, spraying the tall grass below with oozing iron.

You don't wait for the screams to run ahead. With your neck still aching, head pounding, you run for your life.

The hunting begins.

—

You run into the dark nowhere, panting, vision dancing as you push yourself to your limit. If not for your injuries, you'd have a better time navigating the forest from your acquired skills. You've gained some distance between you and the others, so with an apprehensive peek behind a tree, you sit down on the cold soil, back sliding on the trunk, windbreaker scraping against its rough surface.

With a hand on your chest, you try to even out your shallow breathing. “Fuck.” You mutter, tongue brushing along your dry lips.

Reaching behind you, you feel for your wound. Wincing, you bring your hand back towards you, finding blood coating your fingers. Your survival instincts kicks in, perhaps your years as a volunteer summer camp counselor has its perks. An incident with a bear trap involving a fellow counselor was an accident, it wasn't your fault that they blindly stepped into it. Too bad it forced your camp to close permanently.

Zipping your windbreaker slowly so as to not make any noise, you slowly rip the bottom half of your shirt. Once off, you tie it around your head while biting down on the inside of your cheek to tamp down your pained groans. With a tug, you tighten it fully to help stop the blood flow.

You take a breather, that motorcycle ride with Hobie sounds great right about now— Hobie! Your eyes fly open to the thought of him, he can get you out of here on his bike. If not then you can call for help on the payphone. So you find courage deep in you, with a shaky exhale, you stand up, walking back to the same direction where you ran from. You could only hope that he's alright.

Armed with your butterfly knife, you're careful of where you step on. You avoid dry leaves and sticks, opting to walk on the softer soil instead to lessen the sound you make lest you draw a target right on your back.

After a few minutes of trudging along the dark, you make it back to the campsite. The smell of corpses filters through your nose, its smell is just beginning to rot in the moist air as maggots and crows have managed to find their meal.

“Damn it.” You cover your nose with your sleeve, creeping your way towards your pack. You pass by a very much dead Andy, whose head is left out for the worms to get into. His expression is frozen in fear, mouth agape, and eyes wide in surprise. “That colour suits you, Andy.” You scoff, remembering how he tormented you during class by almost burning your hair with his lighter. You watch as maggots eat their way into his eyeball, eyes unable to look away for a moment.

Getting inside your tent, you give one last look at Quinn laying on the ground, unmoving now and skin turning into chalk white. Red still pools around her while the quiet of the night permeates through the chill autumn air.

Pushing the tent open, you enter to grab your backpack on the ground. Finally, hope blossoms in your chest, but the sound of a twig snapping near you freezes you on the spot. You slowly grab your knife next to your leg, all the while barely making any sudden movements. Your eyes flicker on your left, a shadow forms behind the yellow tent, slowly making its way towards you.

You follow its movements, hand gripping the knife until it leaves indents on your skin.

A bead of sweat slides down your temple as the shadow makes its way to the front of your tent.

Breath stuck in your throat, you raise the knife above your head, ready to strike.

A shadow of a hand reaches towards the tent entrance, and you ready yourself.

The tent opens and already you're lunging at them with your knife raised and hand clutching at their front.

“Jesus, it's me!” Flash yells from under you, hands gripping at your windbreaker, eyes wide and blown out as blood flows from a cut on his cheek. “Lower your damn knife, paste.”

“Your girlfriend tried to kill me, why should I?”

“Because I'm not her, duh?!” He shakes his head, hands raised next to him in surrender. “Listen, let's set our differences aside for a second, okay? I don't know a damn thing about surviving out here but I do know that we've got a bigger chance of staying alive if we stay together.”

You clench your jaw, weighing your options. If push comes to shove, you can use him as your shield since he's bigger built than you.

“...fine. But you listen to me, and do what you're told or I'll leave you here.” You push yourself off him, the knife never leaving your grasp.

Flash nods, standing up and brushing himself off. “Do you have a plan? Because you sound like you have a plan.”

“I do.” You say whilst going back inside the tent to grab your backpack. Once you emerge, you find Flash standing above Andy's decapitated head. “C’mon.” Beckoning him, you open your flashlight. He still stands there, staring at his friend's head. “Flash, do you want me to leave you here?”

He sighs, eyes trained on the rotting head. “He was my best friend. I should've told him that I slept with Quinn.”

You snort, “trust me, buddy, he knows.”

“What?” He turns to you.

“Come on before he gets back.”

Flash takes one last look at Quinn's body and Andy's head before jogging to catch up to you. “So how did you know?”

“Shut up, I don't want to talk to you.” You ignore him while walking the same path you and Hobie took.

“Jeez, you're no fun.” He says while making a disgusted face at Andy's dead body that you stepped over nonchalantly.

You whirl around, flashlight aimed at his face as he scrunches up his nose. “This isn't supposed to be fun, Flash. Say one more word and I'll leave you out here, because if he hasn't gotten to Miranda and Emma yet, you'll be the next one he targets.” He nods furiously, frown evident on his face. “Good.”

After a few good minutes, you find the same purple flower you saw while walking with Hobie. “So how do you know that I'm next—?”

“Because if it was me, I'll kill the ones who can fight me off first.”

“And you know this because?” He asks you suspiciously, eyes narrowed at you.

“Just nature. And lots of horror movies.” He continues to stare at you with the same face. “I'm not the killer, you moron. I was with you when he attacked, remember?”

“Yeah, but in those killer movies there's always more than one killer.” He leans closer to you, eyes staring daggers. “You one of them, paste?”

You pause, craning your neck to stare at him back with venomous eyes. “You imbecile.” You mock before walking again. He stands there for a moment, unblinking at where you stood. He follows after your light is starting to fade from his line of sight.

“So…you're not one of them?”

“There's the phone.” You roam your eyes around the clearing all the while ignoring the man next to you. The pay phone still stands completely unharmed, and the lamp post flickers in the night, bulb whirring above the sound of owls. Your heart aches when you don't find a sign of Hobie being there or his bike. You like to imagine that he's far away from the chaos right about now, at least he'd be safe.

Crossing the distance, you pick up the phone, finding it still in good condition as you hear the dial tone. You rummage through your pockets for a quarter, but to no avail. And then you check around the payphone and the coin flap to check for any forgotten coins. You don't find a single one. “Fuck, do you have a quarter?”

“Shit.” Flash pats his jean pockets and varsity jacket pockets. Again, finding empty handed. “Wait—” he takes off his baseball hat to take out a crisp bill. “Here, it's my emergency money.”

You stare at the bill wordlessly while pointing at the coin slot. He shakes his head, gawping at you. You gesture at the slot then at his bill in hand until he gets it.

Realization flickers in his dim witted eyes. “Oh.”

“Oh.” You mock his tone. “We can't make a call without one.”

“What now?”

“I say we just follow the road and hope that a car comes by.” You point at the dark dirt road ahead of you. “Better get walking—”

An ear piercing scream startles Flash, while your head swivels down at the direction of the sound.

“Shit, that's Miranda!” Flash yells, grabbing your hand in his iron grip, and gunning down the slope to get to the source. “I'm coming, baby! I'm so sorry I slept with Quinn, Darlene, and the rest of your cheer team!” His voice rings in your ears while you're trapped in his hold, you try to pull away and get back to solid ground as he continues to drag you away to the dark abyss but he's too strong for you.

“Flash! Let me go!” You pull and tug with all your might but you're left trying to catch up with his speed while your feet drag behind. “Fuck!” A branch hits you right on your face, getting a mouthful of leaves while you almost lose your balance as you skid down the slope.

“Baby—! Oh mother of fuck!” He freezes, hand falling from your wrist, staring at the unfinished building looming overhead amidst the tall trees and overgrown grass. “Shit, it's this place.”

You glance around the space, finding abandoned heavy machinery, concrete, and trailers littered around the skeleton of a would be condo.

“Flash!” Miranda appears from behind a pillar, limping her way towards you and Flash. “He got Emma!” She embraces him while Flash's attention is glued on the grey building with its protruding metal that creaks in the wind and moss covered concrete. “I definitely tried to save her but she tripped and now she's dead with her body chopped in half!”

You glance at her, finding her tears utterly fake. “Or you tripped her.”

She leans away from flash's chest, eyes narrowed to slits and lips frowning. “You're still alive?”

“No thanks to you.” You smile bitterly at her. Before she gets a word in, you're already walking away towards the tall building, eyes scanning its skeletal structure. You notice the ground is darker from where you stand. “This is where it happened.” You turn towards the couple, “this is where they died.”

“Listen, it wasn't completely our fault.” Miranda stalks closer towards you and you quickly ready your knife in your hand. “We were just playing around, we didn't mean to.”

“You're grown ass adults, Miranda. Did none of you listen to Smokey?”

“No, we were too busy having friends, paste.” She mocks, even in danger she finds it in herself to torment you. “That is not our problem right now, we need to go—!”

A sudden bright spotlight appears in front, you squint your eyes, managing to see the masked figure behind the wheel of a motorbike. Oh. He revs his engine, taunting Flash and Miranda.

“Oh fuck, he's back!” Flash yelps, surprisingly enough, he shields Miranda behind him, arms raised to his sides. “Touch my girlfriend and you die!” You raise a brow at his sudden heroic action.

“Yeah, you tell him, baby!” Miranda coaxes him while you step away and watch the scene unfold.

The masked killer revs his engine again, this time, he rides towards you at lightning speed. Smoke billows out from behind him, blanketing the whole area with fog.

The couple screams, bracing for impact while you step back with your eyes only looking at the killer.

Instead of plowing them down with his bike, he skids on the ground sideways, stopping a few ways ahead of the three of you. Once the sound dies down to a murmur of the engine, Flash and Miranda open their eyes to find the killer tossing his machete at their feet.

“Are you surrendering?” Flash turns to you. “Is he surrendering?” You could only shrug.

The figure points at the blade, and then gets off his bike, letting it run in the background and using its light to illuminate the place. Wordlessly, he stomps over to the front of the bike, his figure obscuring the light a bit.

You can't see his eyes from behind the mask as he gestures towards the glade once again. “I think he's trying to tell you to pick it up and fight him.”

“What?” They both look at you with surprise, they simultaneously turn towards the figure, only to find him eerily nodding in approval.

Flash points at himself, and the man nods slowly. “Fuck.”

“Pick it up, babe, show him how it's done!” Miranda cheers him on, pushing him towards the machete. “End his miserable life so we can get back to our lives.” She spits out.

With a gulp, Flash bends down to grab the blade with reluctance. Miranda moves closer to your side, hand grasping your arm. You let her while Flash assumes the position in front of the figure.

“Come at me!” Flash yells, lunging for him.

With a quick side step, the figure dodges with barely any movement. Flash follows ahead with his attack, raising the weapon over his head to slice but his miserable attack is only met with air. All the while, the stranger has his hands hidden in his pockets, upper half barely making a move as he keeps dodging Flash's desperate slashes.

“Stop moving!” Flash frustratingly yells while sweat flows from his forehead.

“You're not fair!” Miranda adds, yelping when Flash gets close to cutting the figure's hand off, but of course he dodges at the last minute. “Fuck! Come on, baby!”

Flash moves to stab instead, “you fucker—!”

With quick movement that you could barely decipher, Flash suddenly has a knife in his nape. Blood ebbs from his neck as he stands in place, gurgling and choking on his own blood.

Miranda's piercing scream echoes around the clearing as birds caw in the distance. “Oh god!”

The figure takes his knife back with an ugly squelch of muscle and blood. Crimson spraying all over his mask as he holds the knife in his gloved hand. He tilts his head, the sharp end of the knife pointed directly at you, to then slowly go down from your neck to your hand that's gripping your own knife.

Miranda shakes you, “he wants to fight you, Y/N!”

“Hm, I don't think so.” You mutter under your breath while gazing at him. “Why should I?” You glance at her horrified face. “You saw what happened to Flash, I can't fight him.”

“P–please.” She says in between sobs, “do this for us.” You roll your eyes and she shakes your arm. “I never wanted to hurt you, paste.” She pleads, the nickname earning a scoff from you.

“You once slashed my tires just because I was paired with your ex for a project.” You say calmly, façade now fully broken, moth freely flying over you. “I almost crashed into a tree, Miranda.”

The figure steps closer, knife now at his side, waiting for your next move.

“T–that was just a joke! We were just—!” Her words are suddenly cut off by your knife stabbing at her jugular. She gasps as blood sprays at your smiling face, her body falling, hand stuck around your knife, you finally turn towards the masked man.

“And here I thought you'd leave me alone with them.”

He peels off his mask, revealing Hobie's awestruck expression. Blinking, chuckles slowly escape his pierced lips. “Holy shit, love. You're brilliant.”

You shrug, smile never leaving your lips. “You should've said something, I would've helped.” You say, reaching for your knife back, flicking all the blood away before tucking it inside your boot. “

“I thought…” he crosses the distance, hand reaching for your own, he loops his pinky around your own, gently tugging you into his bloodied form. “... never mind that now.” you can hear sirens echo from somewhere. “You still up for that ride?”

“I thought you'd never ask.”

Support banner by @/cafekitsune

Custom banners by @the-shroom-garden

[watarfallar]

More incorrect quotes because I lost my sanity in that desert

Grian: Standing next to sunflowers always makes me feel weak like ‘look at this fucking flower. This flower is taller than I am. This flower is winning and I’m losing.’ Scar: Wow, you are not ready to hear about trees.

Grian: We'll talk about this later. Scar: Fine, I won’t be listening.

Scar: Look, I’m glad everyone’s on the same page. Scar: But it’s the last page in a book titled “we’re all going to die”. Grian: That’s not even clever.

Grian: I made lightly fried fish fillets for dinner. Scar: Grian, It’s 1:15 am, what the fuck. Grian: Do you want the lightly fried fish fillets or not. Scar: Well, I mean yeah. Grian: So come downstairs while they’re still hot. Scar: Wait, you just made them? Grian: Yeah, I wasn’t tired so I decided to make lightly fried fish fillets. Scar: Say lightly fried fish fillets one more time Grian.

Scar: I type how I think. Grian: Odd that you type at all then.

Grian: Why can't any of you ever clean up after yourselves? Scar: I have a person who does that for me. Grian: Yeah, ME. Scar: I'm glad you agree.

Scar: Can we get a birthday cake? Grian: It’s not your birthday. Scar: The cake won’t know!

Scar: You're ignoring all your problems. Grian: I know. Scar: You also know it's an unhealthy coping mechanism? Grian: I'm ignoring that fact as well. Scar:

Grian, to The Squad: None of you know what propaganda is, do you? Scar: I think it’s when a British person takes a good look at something.

Scar: Oh shoot! Scar: Excuse my vulgarity. Grian: I’ll let it slide.

Scar: I’m going to hell. Grian: Probably. Scar: I'll pick you up? Grian: nodding Carpool.

Scar: Hey, it’s your turn to wash the dishes. Grian: I’ll wash the walls red with your blood. Scar: Okay, but before that, wash the dishes. Also, use soap this time.

Scar: Okay, if we can't do it by sheer force, we'll do it my way. Grian: But your way is sheer force!

Grian: I'm going to take a shower, I'll be right back. Scar: Why are you telling me this, I don't care. Scar, right after Grian leaves the room: I miss them already.

Grian: Are you this rude to everyone?! Scar: Yup. Scar: Don't think you're special.

Scar: Punch me in the face. Grian: …Punch you? Scar: Yes, punch me, didn’t you hear me? Grian: I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ while you’re speaking but it’s usually just subtext.

Grian: Why are you on fire? Scar: This is just how my day is going.

Scar: Hey Grian, have you seen the photographer? Grian: Nope. Have you seen the meat tenderizer? Scar, confused: What? Grian, grabbing the meat tenderizer out of the drawer: No reason, cute girl things!

Scar: Why would I flip my shit about that? Grian: Because you flip your shit about everything. Scar: Well, will you look at this. Here is my shit, and yet it remains unflipped. Just sitting there on the skillet, getting burned on one side. It’s a miracle.

Grian, ordering coffee: I’d like a light roast. Scar: You're kinda ugly.

Grian: You might not know this, Scar, but I am a flawed person. Scar: I do know that.

Grian: You remind me of the ocean. Scar: Because I'm deep and mysterious? Grian: No, because you're full of salt and you scare people.

Grian is shopping with Scar Grian: Can I get a silenced pistol? Scar: If there’s one on sale.

[ashdreams2023]

Hiii hope you're having a great day<33

I was wondering if you could write a Draco Malfoy x reader fic with him being jealous and it has some angst but ends in fluff. Byee<3

Sure sweetie!

Draco Malfoy x fem reader

Selfish

You never knew what to label what you and Draco had, whenever people asked what you were to each other you couldn’t quite say you were a couple but you didn’t get physical or step over what you may consider normal physical touch for friends but he also flirted with you in public, held your hand when going out in a weekend.

But he always made that one expression when people assumed you were his girlfriend, a look of irritation and almost embarrassment.

You acted like it didn’t bother you, it wasn’t like you were really his girlfriend…but you also weren’t against the idea…

It was around the fourth year, the year the ball was held, everyone was looking for dates and Draco had already asked Daphne and she said yes, you couldn’t be mad or displeased though, he had already told you he would ask you if only he options rejected him or had dates already.

It was basically a slap in the face that you weren’t even considered a real options, you were just plain old you.

Well…screw him…you actually have been asked to the ball and you said yes!

George Weasley…yes a Weasley, you expected him to make fun of you and say you’re out of your mind…at least George didn’t make you cry…

"Him? You could do so much better I’m honestly disappointed"

"Well excuse me for not being as gorgeous as Daphne to be asked by someone better!"

He looked startled at the outburst and frowned "I didn’t say you were ugly…Merlin what’s gotten into you? Did that dumb lion drug you or something?"

Draco was an idiot and you were a fool to think he would care "you’re the fucking worst Draco Malfoy!" You ran out of that room refusing to let him see you cry.

You dogged Draco like the pledge for days up until the ball night, you got ready alone, not feeling you can go and celebrate like any team thee girl in the darn school.

The dress you wore was your older sister’s dress, it was supposed to be saved for a special occasion…you wanted to feel special like every other girl…

Blue was his favorite color, you dress was blue, sparkling and cut in a really nice flattering way, you should’ve felt amazing, and you did, you felt great when gorege called pretty and when you walked in and some of your classmates stared in awe at you.

Then you saw him, he glanced up at your direction, his eyes widening but he never spoke and instead took his date and left with his date to dance.

You felt heavy in the chest but chose to hide your discomfort and dance the night away or at least avoid him.

You realized two things that night, your date might have made you laugh but you couldn’t sit in silence and enjoy the dancing itself…something Draco was doing.

When the slow dancing began you couldn’t stand it anymore, he wouldn’t stop talking and you felt so irritated which resulted in you sitting down and him deciding it wasn’t worth the fight and went to goof off with his friends.

"I told you so" Draco’s voice rang in your ear as he walked towards you, his date nowhere to be seen.

You didn’t feel like replying to him and kept watching the other couples dance. Draco seemed offended by you ignoring and pulled a chair and sat directly in front of you.

"I told you this was a ridiculous idea, now look at you, pouting in sparkling dress that you won’t ever again, over a guy that didn’t have the decency to walk you back to your dorm-"

"At least I was an option" You snapped standing up and storming out the bloody ball room, how could he be so mean to you?!

You ran until you reached one of the trees near the forest, stupid Draco, stupid Weasley and stupid feelings.

"You’re the most unbelievable girl in the world! What has gotten into you!" He bloody followed.

You turned around with tears running down your face, you felt so ugly, so pathetic and so… vulnerable "me?! I’m unbelievable?! You…you damn idiot! My night is ruined and nobody here seems to care! You keep telling me I told you so and my date isn’t as charming as I hoped him to be…I’m a joke! I’m as pathetic as granger on the stupid stairs"

Draco clenched his fists "Yes you do look pathetic and yes Weasley was the furthest from Prince Charming and…and I should have asked you"

Your lip trembled as tears kept going down your soft cheeks "But you didn’t…I wasn’t even an option…I hate you so much"

"…you don’t mean that…look I…" Draco’s cheeks flushed red "You could’ve had anyone, it would’ve been a waste to invite you!" He stepped closer.

"A waste? I waited for you until the last minute then you went asked Daphne! Why couldn’t you just ask me first?!" You cried pushing him back.

"Because I was angry! Ok! I was jealous! I thought if I gave you the fails idea that I’ll ask you no one would dare come and take you! I’m selfish ok! I didn’t want you to go with anyone and I was gonna break up with Daphne the night before the ball then that idiot Weasley asked you!"

You felt breathless, within seconds your emotions shifted from to frustration to confusion and now…disbelief.

"I need to leave I-" you took a step back and almost tripped on your back but he caught you by your waist.

"Don’t hate, I can’t stay sane if you hate me…I know you can’t stand the sight of me now but please, I’m begging you" his ice blue eyes softened, his breath hit your flushed face and all you could think about is how close he was holding you.

"I…you hurt me but…I could never truly hate you" you blinked a few tears away and rested your head on his shoulder.

"I’m thankful…care for a dance? Daphne has two left feet and I could appreciate someone who can match my pace"

You chuckled breathlessly and nodded "sure…you still owe me though" Draco nods, rests his hands on your waist and moves from side to side, with the faint music coming from inside the castle you two dance under the moonlight, it might’ve not been a perfect night from the start but it sure ended in a memorable grace.

[film-in-my-soul]

Ficlet Bingo: Whump Hangster please!

Warning: Vague depictions of bodily injury

.⋆｡°✩ Jake is hurt. But it's alright. Bradley is there. ✩°｡⋆.

His ears are ringing, but that's not the half of it; it's just the half that's the most present while his eyes are still closed, and his body is deciding what the hell it wants to focus on first. Apparently, when he tries to suck in a breath to regain the air he's lost, his broken ribs win out. He's saved from screaming because he didn't manage that breath after all.

Opening his eyes seems impossible, not with the way alarms are turning his brain into a house fire, and the idea of even twitching is threatening an insurmountable kind of panic into his throat. Still, there's a background frequency to the pain and flaring in his brain, a loop of memorable shouts from COs and his father that forces him to shove down all the rolling fear trying to eat him alive.

'Don't you quit now cadet!'

'The Navy doesn't let little boys into planes, Seresin. You a little boy? Then stop acting like one!'

'I didn't raise my son to cry over scraped knees, Jake. Pick yourself up and stop throwing dirt on the Sere-'

"-sin! Hangman!"

The loop escapes his ears and unfurls into the open. For a terrifying second, Jake thinks he's starting to lose it. He can't tell if he's bleeding out, doesn't know if the aching all over his body is accompanied by lacerations or worse, so it's possible he's dying right now and doesn't know it. But-

"Jake," the voice is closer now, and Jake, sucking in the smallest breath he can manage, ignoring the nausea at the rattle in his lungs when it blows out, recognizes it.

"-shaw," he can't get the whole word to form, not past the ragged cough that racks him and lights his chest up like an angry Christmas tree, all fuckshitow and red.

He attempts to do it again but comes up empty, and then he redirects his energy into opening his eyes because talking is apparently out of the question. He's just managing it, blinking grit and what's probably blood out of them, when a shadow falls over his body, and the ground vibrates with how hard Rooster hits his knees next to where Jake's sprawled out.

He thinks he might say something when the other man's face swims into focus, but between his body deciding it really needs him to know it's fucked in some significant way and managing the feat of seeing, it doesn't come out as more than a slur. It makes Rooster's eyebrows scrunch and his mouth pucker, ugly and a little wrecked, so Jake doesn't try again.

"Fuck," Rooster curses under his breath like he's hoping Jake doesn't catch it. It wouldn't matter if he didn't; the sentiment is a shared one, and if he thought he could nod in agreement without throwing up or screaming, he would.

Jake doesn't realize his eyes are slipping closed again until there's a warm, soft pressure on his cheek, tapping at it with shaking fingers.

"Hey, hey, don't you fucking close your eyes, Jake." Rooster's voice is choked, wet like Jake's cough had been, and it's the worry that maybe Rooster had gotten just as messed up as Jake had that has him forcing his lids back up, trying to search for injuries his slowly melting brain hadn't caught.

He doesn't see any, but the way Rooster smiles, wobbly, as he strokes his thumb over Jake's slowly numbing skin is enough of a reward to try and keep his eyes from slipping closed again.

Rooster's doing something with his other hand, poking and prodding, maybe inspecting Jake to find out if he's all still in one piece, but he doesn't leave, and he doesn't take his hand off Jake's face, keeping up the point of contact like it's enough of a comfort to weather the storm of hurt Jake's slowly becoming detached from.

Eventually, he must run out of things to look at, or maybe he just can't stomach it anymore because his attention drifts back to Jake's face. He gets closer, bending over far enough that their foreheads knock together, his hand slipping from Jake's skin to the front of his top, twisting into the fabric and holding on so tight that it almost jostles his no-doubt mangled torso.

"I've got you, sweetheart. You're gonna be okay. I've got you."

Jake doesn't mean to blink and not open his eyes for a second time, but he can't help. Regardless, with Rooster clutching at him, murmuring into his hair, and doing something that might be calling for help, it's alright. Because Jake's gonna be okay.

Bradley said so.

Ficlet Bingo!

[peninkwrites]

How to Bury Your Brother:

A guide by Tommyinnit

crossposted to ao3

~

“You know, the guy known for writing the best instruction manuals on the fucking earth, eh?  The Tommyinnit!  Thought, well, might as well.  Something to do while I dig.  Bet I’m gonna be fucking genius at this shit too.  It’s not… it’s not written down, more like, an unofficial audiobook, ‘cause… cause I can’t write and dig at the same time, see?  Or it’s like a… an oral story that will be passed down for generations!  My wisdom will benefit siblings everywhere of all ages!  Ha.”  A long, heavy pause.  “So, uh.  How to bury your brother.  Well, first thing you gotta do, is, funny enough, dig him out.  He got buried in the rubble, see?  That’s not a fuckin’ universal, but it’s my deal here, so, fuck off.  Um.”

(It was a quiet thing.  For Tommy, things were rarely quiet, but earlier that day, at the start of it at least, he didn't want to make a sound.  As if afraid he was going to wake him.  On the morning of the 17th, early morning, dawn light only just cresting over the server, Tommy went to get him out.)

Tommy’s words are mumbled and accompanied by the scraping of a shovel on dirt.  “Ground is starting to freeze… it is November…”  A pause, he clears his throat.  “Anyway!  Getting ahead of m’self.  I’d get up early.  Early in the morning as you can stand and it helps if you didn’t really sleep the night before anyway, but hike on out there when the sun is just pokin’ its little head up over the trees and… and then you get him out.”

(Tommy was so desperate.  He’d reached the cliffside, realized he couldn’t see Wilbur, and started fighting the mountainside, railing against the rubble with a desperate panic he almost found shameful.  It was hard.  It would get harder.)

“So, you gotta dig him out.  You know he’s under there, but you got no idea what state he’s in, yeah?  And… and it could get ugly.  Uglier even than the fucked up city behind you, but you won’t know until you get in there, so.  Might have to gear yourself up for a bit, alright?  Have a… have a little cry out on the cliffside––not me, obviously.  I’m Tommyinnit, but you might have to––and then you get to digging.  A-And you might get stupid too, alright?  Again, not me, but you might get… might get stupid.  You might start clawin’ your hands all bloody, ‘cause you get it in your thick skull that he’s alive down there.  That he… that he might need you to save him again.”

(Tommy was almost struck by relief when he found him.  Wilbur’s body had not been crushed in the collapse, rather, sheltered.  By chance, an alcove made in the destruction.  Tommy unearthed him, and maybe he could have left him buried right here, right where Wilbur dug his own grave, but he couldn’t do that.  He promised he wouldn’t give up on him.)

Once more, the sharp clang of the shovel hitting dirt.  “Sorry, doing digging.  Distracted.  He’s not alive down there.  Trust me, he’s just not.  You… you saw it.  And you saw it on your comm later, so you know he’s gone, so don’t get yourself all worked up, it’ll be a fuckin’ let down when you see him like that–” Tommy gets choked up, forced to pause.  “ Fuck.  I’m not crying or nothing, I’m just distracted, a-and digging.  And fuck you anyway, nothing wrong with crying!  You gotta get your… your toxic masculinity checked or some shit!”

(Tommy knelt down beside him, and at first he couldn’t bring himself to touch him.  His breathing was shaky as he stared at the blood soaking his brother’s chest.  He buried it and instead fell silent while his gaze wandered up to Wilbur’s open eyes, and a vacant smile that looked so profoundly relieved.)

“Get yourself… get yourself ready, alright?  ‘Cause it’s gonna be fucked up.  He’s gonna be all bloody and his eyes–”  Tommy gets choked up again and cuts himself off.  He takes a shaky breath before making himself continue.  “They’re still gonna be open.  So, you close ‘em.  And… and you ignore the fact that the piece of shit is smiling.  You… you might just be imagining it.  ‘Cause why the fuck would he be smiling?!  No, seriously, what the fuck?  Why is he… why was he smiling?”   A trembling inhale.  “It’s gonna be hard to get him uncovered, and… and you might want to ask for help.  I didn’t, ‘cause I’m strong, you see?  Big man Tommyinnit didn’t need no help movin’ those rocks!  He just… he kept pushing even when it scared him, even when he thought he was gonna hurt ‘im but– I didn’t hurt him ‘cause he was dead.  It… it didn’t hurt him.”  A pause.  “It didn’t hurt him.”

(Tommy put one arm underneath Wilbur’s legs, and the other around his torso.  He'd thought he wouldn't be able to lift him, and it was an awful feeling when he stood and realized how light Wilbur had gotten.  Tommy knew he had lost weight in Pogtopia, but feeling it like that was worse.  He could feel Wilbur’s ribs.  He was stiff from rigor mortis, but Tommy was stiff too from the aches and pains of a battle.  Tommy stood so slowly, afraid of dropping him, and even as Wilbur is too thin in his arms, he was still heavy.  Tommy was slow and careful, even as he knew dropping Wilbur at that point wouldn’t have hurt him.)

“Right.  Right, then, you got ‘im uncovered, eyes closed and all that, next bit is getting him out of there.  Because you can’t bury him there.  You’re not gonna fucking leave him down there.  You’re not.”

(Tommy wasn't sure how he was going to get him out of there, but nonetheless, he slowly turned back the way he had come, and stepped out into the morning sun.  He could have waited and gotten help, he didn't want to.  It was hard.  It was so impossibly hard to step over the rubble and carry him, but he never let go.  He never fell, he just kept walking.  He couldn’t see his feet around Wilbur’s body, not that he tried to, he’d only looked straight ahead.  He’d instead felt his way over the rocks, he’d prayed not to fall and break his neck.  He’d known he wouldn’t be able to carry him far, but he’d made it at least out of the dark and the earth and up on top of the hill that remains intact above the ruins.  No one else was up yet.  Tommy had come early for a reason.)

“So, you’re gonna be careful, yeah?  He won’t weigh much, so you don’t got to worry about that.  Even though it’s probably gonna worry you, ‘cause why the fuck doesn’t he weigh nothing?!”  His rage is cut off by a shaky sigh.  He continues more steadily.  “He’s still a tall bitch, so it won’t be super easy, but you’re gonna make it.  Alright?  The both of you, you’re gonna drag him to the top of the hillside.  Somewhere… somewhere not too far, but somewhere pretty.”

(He made it to the top of the hill before he collapsed, Wilbur hitting the ground, Tommy falling with him, and freezing, stunned and horrified, as he dropped his brother’s body.  He couldn’t keep going anymore.  He just couldn’t.  Tommy didn't cry.  He doesn’t know why he didn’t cry, but he didn’t.  He had stared at Wilbur’s face.  For a moment, weary calm was replaced by sharp rage.  He shut Wilbur’s eyes.  He couldn’t stand the sight of them.)

“Somewhere pretty.”

(Tommy set him down so carefully, as delicately as he could.  He stood on aching knees and unsteady feet, and then he turned away from the body.  Then, he started to talk.)

“Right, once you put him down, all nice and gentle like, even though he won’t care anymore, then you can get on to the digging bit.  I know, feels funny to drag your brother out of the grave he made for one you made, but trust me, mine is loads better.  It’s… it’s gonna be loads better…”

Tommy has an iron shovel.  He started to dig.  It’s November.  The air is cold and the ground not quite frozen, but stiff and difficult to move; rigor mortis has set in for the year.  This is hard too.  Maybe even harder than carrying him.  Tommy digs.  He’s already tired.  He’s been tired for a long time.  Maybe he’ll rest, but not until this is finished.

He is careful and methodical.  He wants it to be perfect, so it is.  He is so unlike himself as he digs out a rectangle, over six feet in length, over three feet in width with such precision.  Then he starts to dig down.

“You’ll mark it out, see?  Make it like, a bit taller than him and a bit wider.  As for me, that makes it over six feet long and three feet wide.  Dunno about your brother.  Measure him, or whatever the fuck.”

His knuckles ache, his palms blister, and his chest feels very tight, but he doesn’t stop.  It’s a labor of love.  He steps down into the grave once it gets too hard to bend down and keeps going.  Once, he pauses.  He’s damp with sweat, the sun has finally broken through, and soon people will come to search the crater.

“It’s gonna… it’s gonna start to hurt.  Holy fuck is it hurtin’ right now, your hands are gonna hurt like a bitch and you’re gonna get all sore–– Which!  To be fair, is because you fought a war yesterday!  Or… Or I did.  Dunno about you.  I did.  We… we won–”  Once more, words broken by a buried sob.  “Did you know that?  We won the war, Wil!  We… oh fuck…”

Tommy cannot stop.  He keeps digging.  That is why it hurts so badly.  When he finally cries, it’s because of how much his hands hurt, his whole body aches, rather than his reason for doing this in the first place.  It’s cool in the grave, sweat cold on his back, the sun not doing enough.  It’s a labor of love.

He doesn’t know what more he can do.  He has run out of ways to save his brother, because there is nothing left to be saved.

There is quiet for a time, save for the sound of digging, and the occasional breathless, whimpering sob.

“You… you gotta dig for a long time, see?  Make it real deep.  Deep enough you can’t see out of it.  That’s when… that’s when you’ll probably get bored enough to write– to talk out a book, yeah?  Write a different instruction manual, though.  I’ve got this one covered.  Even if… even if no one is gonna fuckin’ hear it, it sure beats talking to your dead brother…”

Tommy can no longer see up over the grave.  So he stops.  He claws his way out and finds Wilbur exactly as he left him.  He didn’t expect anything different, but still, the sight of him comes as a disappointment.  He looks no less dead in the sun, skin a sickly white, eyes finally closed, there is no way for Tommy to ignore the blood soaking his chest.  Tommy stands slowly.  He stares, as if expecting Wilbur to move.  To sit up, to say something terrible or something kind, but of course he doesn’t move.  He’s dead.

Tommy wants to shout at his brother.  He wants to scold him for abandoning them, to ask him why? 

“Don’t… don’t bother talking to ‘im, alright?  However much you want to, there’s no point.  He’s… he can’t fucking hear you.  Not like he… not like he ever listened anyway…”

Tommy puts his weary body through one last torment.  He slowly picks up the body, struggling under the weight of it, and despite knowing Wilbur isn’t here, he still tries to be gentle.  He turns to the beautifully dug grave, and he stops.  His whole body hurts.  He doesn’t know how much longer he can bear the weight of it.  Tommy falls to his knees.  He still holds on.  He sits back and holds his dead brother close, hugging him tightly, even as he no longer settles right in Tommy’s arms.

“I don’t… I don’t want to let go… I don’t want to let him go… I don’t– oh, fuck, Wil, I don’t know how to do this!  Please!  Please, I don’t know how to fucking do this!”

There is no reply.

Holding him feels wrong.  He’s so stiff and he smells like gunpowder and dying and cigarettes, but not even 24 hours ago this had been his big brother.  This had been everything he had tried to save, just like that crater over the hillside.

Tommy needs to bury him.  He doesn’t want to wait for him to rot.

“I don’t… I don’t wanna bury him, though…”

Silence.  Perhaps for too long, but finally, Tommy speaks again.

“Right.  Okay, you… next thing you gotta do, is you gotta get up.  You don’t… you don’t fucking drop him in the grave, you put him down next to the grave.  And… and you hop down in it for him, got it?”

As always, he goes through the doorway first, as always, he beckons his brother through, impatient like only a little brother can be.  He pulls Wilbur into the grave with him, and places him gently on the ground.  Maybe he should have brought a blanket.  Or even a flag to cover him.  It’s too late for that now.  What’s done is done, and Tommy doesn’t think he can go back at this point.  If he walks away now, he won’t be able to return to finish the job.

“You… you put him down, real careful like.  A-And you put something with him.  If you can.  You give him a blanket or a flag or– or something important.”  Another heavy pause.  “If you… if you can…”

Tommy climbs out of the grave.  Wilbur does not follow.

“Oh, now we’re getting to the big stuff, lads!  That was just the… just the prep work.  Now we get to the actual burying bit!  Straight forward, really.  You do what you did with your shovel before, just in reverse.”  Tommy takes up his shovel again.  “A-And we don’t look down, got it?  We… we don’t look.”

He does not look down as he buries him.  He just keeps going until the earth is gone, and when he turns to look, it’s like he’s still expecting to see him.  He still thinks he should see his brother there, but there is only the earth.

“He’s buried.  You did it.  Well done,” he says weakly.  “But… but you’re not done yet,” he sniffs and wipes his eyes.  “Dunno about your brother, but my big brother doesn’t deserve an unmarked grave.”  Tommy gets out a large flat stone.  “Dunno what he deserves, but it’s not that…” He mumbles.

Tommy drags a large, flat stone over the freshly turned earth.  He hunches over it, a mess of mud and sweat and day old blood, and he scratches out his name.  That is as far as he gets.  Wilbur Soot.

“Put something nice on it.  Something special along with their name.”

Tommy doesn’t know what else to say.  Nothing would be fair, nor good enough, nor bad enough, for everything his brother is.  Was.

“That’s… that’s all it takes.  You bury him.  Only thing left to do is…” Tommy stares down at his grave.  He cannot say it.  Only thing left to do is leave.

Nonetheless, he does not stay.  He stands, leaning on his shovel, so weighted with exhaustion.  But he still goes back down the hill, to where Tubbo so many others have started to piece the world back together again.  He leaves Wilbur behind and joins them.

[mapsofnonexistentplaces]

why is it that every time someone argues about how deserts are actually ‘useful’ ecosystems you just get a bunch of white bitches with a high school level understanding of ecology going “OH, i know when you think of a desert you think of those ugly fucking arab wastelands, but here in our good civilised western country, we actually have grass and trees, and you can farm there!” like sorry if you’re a self proclaimed leftist and are still like. “Well this entire ecosystem is useless and can be ignored, because it doesn’t look accessible to me.” you are fucking stupid maybe

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

please please please stallard x ghost and the "Aww, love you too." prompt🙏🙏🙏

LOVE YOU SO SO SO SO POWERFUL MUCH. 🥹🥹🥹

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!OC / Simon doesn't know where to go when he detoxes. It makes him crawl back to an old flame, and he sweats out addiction and ugliness.

TW's: drug withdrawal, mentions of violent infanticide.

The fevers go by in spikes of blurred dreams. This is where Ghost would die, if he was done paying for all the shit he's done. Figures it's owed, his soul's in the red, and deep in the shit. Course, he wouldn't be lucky enough to die detoxing off pills.

It's the dog legs of July, 2012. World was supposed to end a month ago. It didn't. Now he's sweating out his demons in Stallard's guest bedroom. The guest bedroom in the house she shares with her husband.

That's right. She's no longer Stallard, is she? She's Graves. Saeda Graves.

It's hard to keep that in mind when he wants to shred his skin to get the goddamned bugs out from under it. When all his bones ache the same as trees turned tinder by nuclear blast radii.

And the fucking hallucinations. Christ. He can't escape Tommy's son. Can't see his fuckin' face, no, but he can see his little socked feet. Can see his bloody chest rising and falling. Can hear his death rattle. Over there, just under the dresser.

Falls out the bed, tryin' to get to him. Cracks his temple off the corner of the nightstand, busts his chin on the hardwood.

Stallard isn't there one moment, and then she is, over the span of a blink--one that lasts ten minutes when his pounding heart demands unconsciousness, because his brain can't decide which panicking bodily system is most deserving of attention and correction, when it is too far burnt down to even regulate itself.

"Christ, Simon," she mumbles, crouching, and there was a time, years ago, when he'd grab her hips, and drag her over his face, as if forcing her into a saddle. "Split your fuckin' head open. The fuck're you doin', man?" she asks, more herself than him.

"Shut th'fuck up," he says, or he thinks he does. If it fell out of his mouth, she had the grace he's never possessed in his life to ignore it. Just hooks her arms under his pits, and hoists him back in the bed.

The moment he hits the sweaty sheets, his brain pulls a hard left. His nephew is gone, the death rattle is gone, the smell of blood in the air--gone, gone, fucking gone. His head is spinning, and he feels spiders crawling across his skin, and his brain is burning, cooking, broiling to death in his battered skull.

Stallard: gone again, back again, and, now, she's cleaning up his forehead, pulling it back together where it split. She seals it shut with super glue, an old trick he remembers she'd picked up from the Rangers.

"Stop," he grunts, trying to push at her hands, but she ducks and bites his little finger. A nip sharp enough to drop his hands, and he remembers that, too. She picked that up from farriers working on horses that bit at their shoulders and asses--just bite the fuckers back, make them stop.

"Dumb bastard," she says under her breath, and she focuses in his eyes.

He's missed her. He's always fucking missed her, and he remembers everything about what they had. The way her hair felt sliding through his hands, black as pitch. The elastic lines around her mouth as she smiled. How her eyes would return to him when he spoke, when her mind was years and years behind them, before she had gotten the bulk of her tragedies out of the way.

There was a wedding portrait in the hall on the way to this guest room. She--she looked fucking awful. Her wedding was not hers, and he can tell without asking how it went down. He hated her dress, and her veil, and her bouquet, and her short fucking, shit-grinning groom.

He hates this house. He hates her last name. He hates that she didn't somehow know to fucking wait for him.

He hates that even if she did, he couldn't have done shit-all about actually marrying her.

"I hate you," he croaks, staring hard into her eyes as she fusses over him, and her hands still. Her gaze zeroes in, wide and hurt, and he continues to drill into those gray-green eyes. And he likes it. He likes that he's wounded her in her big, fancy house, with that big, ugly ring on her finger. He just don't know, though, he don't understand just how fucking bad it is under this roof. "Fuckin' hell, I hate you."

A huge sigh heaves her chest, and she shakes her head, capping the super glue as her eyes flicker away. "Aw. Love you, too," she says, but the tone of her joke is flat, carries on without heart to back it up.

His mouth staggers away without his control after a few moments of floating, paint-smear silence, and his voice almost cracks when he insists, "Shouldn't have married him, Saeda."

"Yeah, well." Her fingers worry the two gold necklaces around her throat, all of her little gold crosses, the chintzy yellow gold and opal ring he scrimped and scraped and save to buy her a lifetime ago. "Woulda been you, if you hadn't'a fuckin' died, Simon."

The silence rings in his ears. Imagines it rings in hers as well.

She picks her ass up off the bed, pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her back pocket, and lights one. After she takes a drag, she puts it to his lips, giving him a sorely needed hit of nicotine. Another little mercy of hers, caring for him, even when he is wrong. And he is wrong to and about her so fucking often.

[krikeymate]

Imagine: the core 4 is out on a hot day and they are just having fun around town

Mindy and chad are debating over something and sam doesn’t see tara anymore

She cant find her and eventually she hears crying

She finds tara crying and someone had made fun of taras scars since she was wearing a cropped shirt because of the weather. Her eyes look so sad

😟

Sam feels like she only turned around for a second, and then Tara was gone. That girl, she sighs. Maybe she should get the leash out after all. Tara likes crowds as little as she does, and she knows how anxious it makes her when she disappears like this, so she doesn't understand why she still does it.

She wanders back to The Twins splashing each other in the fountain, alongside several children, to let them know she's going off to search for their wayward companion. They wave her off, too busy in their water-based war. She hopes Chad will reign Mindy's competitiveness in. She's not getting involved if Mindy's caught publically feuding with a child again.

The sun beats down harshly, skin prickling under the heat. It's the kind of sensation Tara loves, but Sam can't stand it. She'd rather be inside lying in the dark, than out here, tanktop soaked with sweat and eyes burning even behind her sunglasses.

But she'd seen the way Tara looked longingly at the crowds outside enjoying the sun, and just known her plans for the day were ruined. So here she is, outside for Tara, and the girl is nowhere to be found.

If she went to get ice cream and didn't get one for Sam, she's going to be pretty upset.

She wanders past a couple of teenagers sniggering about... a girl with scars? She spins on her heel in an instant, slamming one of them against the tree they're leaning on. Turns out she doesn't have to worry about Mindy making a scene after all.

"The fuck did you just say," she growls at the kid, their feet barely touching the ground as she holds them aloft.

"Woah, hey-"

She ignores their companion.

"You think there's something ugly about scars? How about I give you a few of your own?!"

The boy is shaking like a leaf in her grip, spluttering.

"She got them fighting for her life, which is more than you'll ever achieve!"

She drops him to the floor, stepping her booted foot between his legs, a silent threat.

"Where the fuck is she?"

The boy points a quivering finger to the benches by the pond. Sam side-eyes the boys companion, a pathetic excuse for a friend given how easily he stood back with nary a word of protest. She makes a small lunge at him, enjoying the way he trips over his feet as he jumps backwards.

She finds her sister curled up on a bench, body hidden behind her legs and watching the ducks.

"I've been looking for you," she murmurs, plonking herself down beside her sister and throwing a sweaty arm over her shoulder.

Tara wrinkles her nose, trying to shake the arm off. "Sorry," she mutters, not looking her way.

"So, what're we doing over here? If you wanted to see the ducks, you could have just told me."

"I-" Tara bites her lip, glancing at Sam's feet. "It was just... a lot. More than I expected. Being..."

"Seen?"

Tara looks up, meeting Sam's eyes. She swallows.

"Some losers said something, huh?" Sam asks, the answer already known to her. She watches her sister blink back some tears, her head jolting forward in a nod.

Sam pulls her into her side. "They're just jealous they're not as pretty as you." Tara snorts, sniffling into Sam's shoulder.

"That's not-"

"True? Mmm, that's not an argument you're gonna win babygirl, don't try me." When Tara doesn't respond, Sam continues. "I set them straight anyway, and I'll beat up anyone who has something to say about your scars."

Tara sits up. "Wait, Sam, what did you-"

"So let's go get some ice cream," Sam says, loudly, speaking over her sister. She stands up, holding out a hand for her.

"Ice cream," she reiterates, brow twitching at Tara as if daring her to question her.

Tara squints at her, considering her options, but eventually, she reaches out and lets herself be pulled up from the bench.

Sam doesn't let go of her hand as she pulls them in the direction of the van.

"Should we get some for Mindy and Chad?"

"Nah, what they don't know won't hurt them," Sam jokes, knocking her shoulder against Tara's. The laugh she gets back makes braving the sun worth it. She'll do anything to keep hearing it.

[madphantom]

Susan's Hell Sprint snippet number 2 let's go

Log of Susan Adams, written December 1st, 1973 (cont'd)

I woke up alone in the living room. The light was still on and bathing the place in a soft, warm light. I was still in a half sleep drunken haze, and despite the fact that my neck hurt from falling asleep on the couch, I was oddly comfortable there. I slid down, curled up, and was just about to drift off again when I suddenly heard an ugly scraping sound, like nails against glass.

I opened my eyes. Suddenly I was wide awake. My heart was racing. The sound had been right behind me.

When I turned around I saw something red softly sway behind the window.

“Hello?”, I whispered, my voice cracking in fear. “Who's there?”

Nothing. No answer. The swaying continued.

I slowly got up and turned towards the window, pushing the photographs off my knees. Through the dust it was hard to see a thing. I could make out a vaguely humanoid silhouette, but it was upside down. Everything inside me was screaming not to open that window, but once I had begun to move, I couldn't stop myself.

The handle was cold beneath my fingers. The paint peeled off in tiny white chips. I twisted the handle and with a creak, the window opened.

A woman was hanging upside down in the apple tree and staring at me with wide open green eyes, her burnt cindered face twisted into a grotesque, horrifying grin. Her long matted, crispy hair rustled in the breeze like dry leaves and she was gently swaying back and forth. The wind played with her dress - her beautiful, burning, blood red dress.

I woke up with a scream. It was pitch dark. The wind whistled around the house and the tree scraped against the walls like an animal begging to be let inside. My heart was racing. Before I knew what I was doing, my shaking hands dialed the number on the piece of paper Rory had given me. Tears were streaming down my face. I felt like I was eight again, except this time around there was no Aunt Dot who could come in and save the moment. Aunt Dot was dead and I was alone and that horrifying vision of the woman in red could not and would not leave my mind. It was burned into the insides of my eyelids.

When Rory picked up he sounded surprisingly awake. “Hello?”

“Hi, it's Susan.” I fumbled with the telephone cable. “I, uh, I had a nightmare.”

“Oh, dear. I could be over in, say, twenty minutes? Can you manage that long?”

“Yeah.” My voice was quiet.

“Great. See you then.”

“Thank you.”

The quiet beep beep after he ended the call brought me back to reality. I shivered and curled up on the sofa. My heart was racing. I wanted to get out of here, out of here, out of here.

Something rustled in the leaves outside the window. I flinched, closed my eyes tight. Go away. Go away. GO AWAY.

I heard a scream under my window and for a split second I thought it was a woman and my heart skipped a beat, until I realized it was a fox. The animal hissed. Snarled. For a few moments it was quiet.

“Oh, fuck right off,” I heard a familiar voice call outside, followed by something rustling in the thickets in front of the window.

So there was something there.

The doorbell went off. I took a deep breath. Then I jumped to my feet, and without looking at the window behind me, I raced downstairs, trying my best to ignore imaginary faces grinning at me from the floral wallpapers. GET AWAY FROM ME.

I opened the door and sobbing, collapsed into Rory's arms. I tried to say something, explain how terrified I'd been, but I couldn't even speak.

“Oh my god,” he just whispered reassuringly and ran a hand through my hair. “That bad?”

I nodded. Sobs were shaking me. Rory closed the door behind himself.

“Shh, it's alright,” he whispered, but I could feel he was tense. And when I finally gathered myself enough to take a step back and a deep breath, I realized why. On his thigh, concealed as well as possible by the leather jacket he'd hastily tied around his waist, was a massive gash, and fresh red blood had just begun to seep into the fabric of his jeans.

[rjalker]

ahaha I forgot the internet stopped working last night so instead of live blogging The Dragonriders of Pern I just started leaving snarky notes

most notable of which is simply, "Will you shut the fuck up, Anne?"

in response to this:

Lord Toric heard about the attempted intrusion and smiled.

It amused him that more people were illegally attempting to invade the south - so long as they kept away from his zealously guarded holding - and ignoring the Benden Weyrleaders’ edict that immigration must be to sites they had approved. That only verified to Toric that the Weyrleaders were indeed keeping the best sites for the dragonriders. He was hoping that some of the tries would succeed if only to prove that people could survive very well, thank you, wherever they were willing to work hard enough to “hold”. It didn’t matter to Toric that these would-be settlers could die from sampling exotic-looking and sweet-smelling tree fruits, that there were hungry and feral beasts quite able to take down a full-grown adult, that there were the most insidious dangers from thorn-poisoning and fevers. Toric’s notion was that the strong survived and if the unfit died, they merited no mourning. What irked him most was that the Benden Weyrleaders felt they had the right to apportion the south where they wished to bestow it. Just because they’d found some document that told how the Ancients had dealt with settling. Land was held by those strong enough to hang on to it and improve it.

And then there was that infamous meeting of Weyrleaders and Lords Holder - which he had been unable to attend while he was involved with ousting the renegade Denol from lerne Island. That’s when all those old-womanish Lords had actually established that the dragonriders had the right to control the Southern Continent land grabbings. “Out of respect for the services dragonriders have given Hold and Hall over the centuries of Threadfall.” As if tithing to support the indolent riders hadn’t been reward enough for dragons doing what they had been bred to do. Much less the gratuities which had always been lavished on dragonriders.

If I were a character in a Dragonriders of Pern story I'd be the disgusting ugly cripple queer who hates dragonriders and has evil monologues about how wrong I am even though I'm literally right.

Like:

It didn’t matter to Toric that these would-be settlers could die from sampling exotic-looking and sweet-smelling tree fruits, that there were hungry and feral beasts quite able to take down a full-grown adult, that there were the most insidious dangers from thorn-poisoning and fevers.

Excuse me Anne can you please shut the fuck up? Will you please shut up?

Just shut up lol.

She's literally just making up fake dangers that literally do not exist when the Good Guys are on screen to pretend that letting poor people build homes for themselves is BAD, actually, clearly they should all be enslaved and spend the rest of their lives underground in a mine until they die!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Like she went on and on about how dangerous firehead was when Jaxom caught it......and then never brought it up again even when the characters should have been highly worried about it.

But no.

it stops existing as soon as it's no longer needed for the plot.

But now she's claiming to be bringing it back -- along with a bunch of other random new danger she's pulled out of a hat -- so that she can pretend tht not letting homeless people have homes and then enslaving them when they try to build one for themselves is actually for their own good and not just........rampant and blatant classism and ensuring that the status quo remains in place.